Short-Straw Bride

by Karen Witemeyer

  A gallant denial sprang to his lips, but the moment he saw her, his ability to speak vanished. She was a vision. Her honey-colored hair was rolled against her head in thick, soft twists accented by loops of blue ribbon with long tails that draped along the side of her neck. Travis’s fingers itched to follow the trail of those ribbons, to brush the tender skin at her nape.

  Her lashes were lowered, and he wondered at her shyness until he recalled that he hadn’t answered her comment. “Meri, look at me,” he murmured in a quiet tone that no one would overhear.

  Those thick, dark lashes lifted slowly, and the blue of her eyes, made even more vibrant by the blue of her dress, pierced his heart. Her teeth nibbled her bottom lip as she forced her gaze to hold his.

  “I’ll not be changing my mind.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and a tentative smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. His own mouth curved in response. Then he remembered the awkward bouquet he’d brought. Feeling a little sheepish, he raised his arm and held it out to her.

  “It’s not much, but I thought you might like them.”

  Her breath caught and for a moment she did nothing but stare at the rustic offering. Unable to see her eyes, Travis’s doubts grew. “I know they’re just a bunch of weeds, so don’t feel like you have to carry them. It was probably a stupid idea anyway.” As his mumbled excuses tapered off, Meredith’s head snapped up.

  “Don’t you dare call them weeds, Travis Archer. They’re glorious!” Her eyes glistened with moisture he didn’t understand. “No bride could have a finer bouquet. Thank you.”

  The softness of her palm caressed his knuckles as her hand circled the stems, and the contact had an odd tightening effect on his chest. He offered her his arm and led her to the parson.

  To be honest, Travis didn’t remember much of what the preacher said during the brief ceremony. He supposed he answered at the appropriate times and vaguely recalled Meredith doing the same, but when the parson announced that he could kiss the bride, his senses came on high alert.

  How did one kiss a bride he’d never expected to have, one he’d known less than a week? Thinking to buss her chastely on the cheek, he leaned forward. But he couldn’t seem to pull his attention from the fullness of her lips or the way they parted slightly as she drew in a breath, and somehow his mouth found her lips instead. The kiss was brief, gentle, but exquisitely sweet. If not for the hoot Neill let out, he would have returned for another.

  A pretty blush colored Meredith’s face as she turned away to accept her cousin’s congratulations, and Travis had to fight the urge to swagger when he approached his brothers.

  “I guess this means you won’t be bunking with me no more, huh, Trav?” Neill snickered as he elbowed him.

  More than ready to give up the cot in his brother’s room, Travis scowled without any heat and shoved his kid brother’s shoulder.

  Crockett clasped Travis’s hand and reached around to slap him on the back. When he stepped back, however, the knowing grin he wore communicated his thoughts all too clearly. “I’m sure he’ll miss your snore terribly, Neill, but I imagine Meredith will distract him from the loss.”

  Travis felt his neck grow warm. “Leave it alone, Crock,” he warned as he turned to accept Jim’s hand.

  In truth, he’d been so caught up with worries about Mitchell, the barn, and whether or not a wedding would even take place, he’d given very little thought to what would happen after the exchange of vows.

  His gaze found Meredith across the room, the ribbing comments of his brothers fading from his awareness as he lingered over her profile. The curve of her cheek. The way the ribbons caressed her neck, inviting him to do the same. The slenderness of her waist. The curve of her—

  Meredith glanced up at that moment, and Travis jerked his attention back to his brothers.

  All right, so he had thought about it. Just not in any . . . uh . . . practical sense.

  Instinctively, he knew that Meredith would not refuse him his marital rights. She would consider it her duty as his wife. Yet most husbands had first been suitors, courting their prospective brides with sweet words and gifts of affection. Except for the handful of weeds he’d presented her that morning, he’d given her nothing but a scarred leg and a dented head.

  “What’s got you frowning, brother?” Crockett jostled him with a shoulder to the arm. “You want me to hurry this party along so you can have some time alone with your bride?” His eyebrows wiggled suggestively, but Travis ignored the bawdy gesture.

  He nudged Crockett aside and lowered his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. Jim had already wandered into Hayes territory anyway, trying to get closer to a certain gal in pink, and Neill was smart enough to take the hint and turn his attention to the parson.

  “Do you think I should give her some time to adjust before I move into her room?” Travis stretched his neck from side to side in an effort to rid himself of the kinks that suddenly arose.

  “Shoot, Trav. It’s your room, not hers.”

  “I’m serious, Crockett. It would be the considerate thing to do, don’t you think? This situation has been thrust on both of us without any warning.”

  The teasing light in Crockett’s eyes dimmed, and his mouth stiffened. “Are you saying you’re not attracted to her in that way?” His voice was tight. “You should have never gone through with this if you—”

  “Of course that’s not what I’m saying,” Travis hissed. “Just look at her. A man would have to be blind not to be attracted.”

  Crockett’s face relaxed.

  “I just thought, maybe I should, you know, court her a bit first.” Travis kicked at the edge of the rug with the toe of his boot. He’d rather she be a willing partner than simply a dutiful one.

  “When do you plan to court her, exactly? While we rebuild the barn? Or maybe out among the cattle while we search out new places for them to forage, since half our fodder went up in smoke? Thanks to Mitchell, we have more work on our hands and less time to accomplish it with winter already knocking on the door.” Crockett looked to the ceiling and blew out a breath before turning back to his brother. “I don’t know what the right answer is, Travis. I’ve even less experience than you when it comes to women. Talk to Meredith. Decide together what is best for the two of you. And pray for the Lord’s guidance.”

  “Travis?” Meredith’s soft voice gave him a start.

  He spun around. Had she overheard any of their conversation? He prayed not and schooled his features as best he could to keep his chagrin hidden.

  “I thought our guests might like to eat those sweet rolls now.” She spoke with hesitation, and her eyes had difficulty holding his, but her smile reached inside him and undid the knots in his gut.

  Travis offered her his arm and called out to the rest of the room. “My wife informs me that it’s time to eat. And I, for one, am eager to sample my bride’s cooking.”

  “It takes a brave man to marry a woman without proof of her ability to keep him from starvation, Archer,” the parson said on a chuckle as he bustled forward.

  “Says the man in the greatest hurry to get to the kitchen.”

  Meredith giggled at his jest, and Travis smiled. He slipped his hand over hers where it rested on his forearm and enjoyed the feel of his mother’s ring beneath her glove.

  “I said you were brave, lad. Not me. I’ve tasted Miss Meredith’s baked goods and know precisely what quality of treat waits for me in the other room. And I plan to snatch the largest roll.” He broke into a bouncy jog as if afraid someone would beat him to the prize. The room erupted in laughter.

  Emboldened by the man’s high spirits, Travis leaned down and whispered in Meredith’s ear. “If they taste half as sweet as the one who baked them, they’ll be delicious indeed.”

  “Travis,” she chastened in low voice, her lovely cheeks matching her cousin’s dress.

  He grinned unrepentantly and urged her forward.

  He was going to enjoy this courting business.

>   18

  Meredith winced as she straightened from the wash basket and lifted one of Travis’s shirts to the line. Laundry day had always made her lower back throb with all the bending and heavy lifting required, but as she surveyed the neat rows of male clothing, sheets, and table linens flapping in the chilled air, a proud smile curved her lips.

  These were her family’s things. Her husband’s things. Amazing how that simple fact took the drudgery out of the chore.

  Smiling to herself, she tossed the shirt over the line for a moment, then pushed her palms into the small of her back and turned her face up toward the sun as she stretched. The sound of a door shutting brought her head around.

  Jim clomped down the back steps, his stocky build making his stride heavier than Travis’s loose-limbed gait. His hair was a shade lighter than her husband’s, but his eyes were similar, only they didn’t have the intriguing touch of green she saw in Travis’s.

  Meredith raised a hand in greeting as he walked down the clothesline. The taciturn man favored her with a lift of his chin but not much else. He was a bit of a curmudgeon, but she didn’t let it bother her since he acted the same way around his brothers. The only one he didn’t act that way with was Cassie. But Cassie had that effect on men. She could charm a rock into floating on water with one of her smiles.

  “I’ve got some stew simmering for supper,” Meredith called out as he passed. He stopped and turned, but instead of answering her, he grabbed one of the trouser legs from the line and held it to his nose.

  Was he . . . sniffing it?

  He released it with a grunt, one that sounded rather like the ones her father used to make when he’d find the answer he sought in one of his research books. Then he glanced up and briefly met her gaze.

  “Stew needs salt.” And with no further commentary, he strode on to his shed.

  Meredith didn’t know whether to be offended at his opinion of her cooking or pleased that he’d actually spoken to her.

  Turning back to her task, she pulled a clothespin from her apron pocket and fastened one shoulder of Travis’s plaid flannel shirt, the one he had loaned her, to the line. As she worked to pin the other side, a ray of sunlight glinted off the gold band on her left hand. Meredith paused to admire it.

  A married woman. Her. Meredith Hayes.

  No, she corrected, Meredith Archer.

  Her smile widened as she reached into the basket at her feet and retrieved her nightdress. A sigh escaped her as she shook out the wet, wadded cotton—the virginal white fabric a reminder that she was not yet a wife in all respects, only a bride. She forcefully flicked her wrists, snapping the gown into its full length.

  She’d spent her wedding night alone.

  Oh, it was out of consideration for her feelings. Travis had explained all that. And in her mind she understood his kindness and even appreciated the time he was giving her to truly get to know him before their relationship became more intimate. But in her heart? Well, deep down his consideration felt a lot like rejection.

  Had he not felt the pulse-stopping current she had when their lips met during the ceremony? She guessed not, since he seemed in no hurry to repeat the experience. Travis hadn’t kissed her once since the wedding three days ago.

  She’d waited twelve years for that kiss, and now that she’d had a taste, three days without one felt like an eternity. Maybe Travis was the one who needed time. Meredith tilted her head as she pondered that idea. Perhaps he’d suggested they wait to consummate their marriage because he needed time to adjust. It wouldn’t be surprising, really. Her uncle had practically forced the man to the altar. Meredith let out a sigh. She supposed she’d have to be patient.

  At least Travis didn’t seem adverse to her touch. His hand had a tendency to brush hers when they passed food around the supper table. And when they’d shared the sofa yesterday during the worship service the Archer brothers conducted in their parlor on Sundays, Travis had held the hymnal and sat close enough to her that she could feel the length of his leg whenever she leaned to the side to get a clearer view of the page.

  The Lord probably didn’t appreciate her feigning nearsightedness in order to repeatedly lean into her husband when she should’ve been concentrating on the meaning behind the hymn she was singing. It was no doubt her shameful behavior that prompted his divine hand to intervene in the song selection. When Neill accidentally announced the wrong song number, he decided to lead the unplanned hymn anyway. After three verses of “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” Meredith’s vision miraculously improved.

  She reached for another garment, the green calico she’d had to scrub three times on the washboard, thanks to all the soot stains. When she straightened, the tune from that convicting hymn found its way to her lips. As she hummed the lilting melody, she recommitted her priorities. God first. Husband second. Yet when the words of the refrain ran through her mind, they brought with them recollections of a verse from James. “Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you.” Meredith couldn’t help wondering if such a strategy would work on husbands, as well.

  Two shots fired in close succession rent the air. Meredith startled and dropped the clothespin she’d just extracted from her pocket. Then she remembered the sound was her husband’s version of a doorbell and ordered her pulse to settle.

  “One of these days I’m going to convince Travis to get rid of that awful sign,” Meredith muttered as her hand closed around another wooden pin.

  Just yesterday, Crockett had preached a fine lesson on the parable of the Good Samaritan. He’d kept looking at her with those twinkling eyes of his, leaving her to wonder if he saw her in the role of the Samaritan, performing a good deed in warning Travis of Mitchell’s attack, or if he’d cast her in the role of the poor traveler who’d ended up half dead upon the road. Either way, Jesus clearly told the story to teach his followers to love their neighbors through acts of kindness and charity. How exactly did Travis think he and his brothers would fulfill this calling if they closed themselves off from anyone who might be considered a neighbor?

  That sign had to go.

  “Meredith?” Travis called out to her as his long strides ate up the distance between the shed and the trees that supported her wash line. “I need you to go into the house.”

  “I only have a few things left to hang. It’ll just take a min—”

  “Now, Meredith. Do as I say.” The hardness in his voice surprised her, and the firm set of his jaw made it clear he expected her to jump to his bidding.

  She had vowed to obey her husband, but she’d made no promise to jump like a scared rabbit every time he took to ordering her around.

  Meredith lifted her chin. “Why must I go into the house, Travis?”

  “Because,” he gritted out, “there might be a threat, and I want to ensure that you’re safe.”

  “What kind of threat?”

  Travis yanked off his hat and swatted his thigh with it. “Confound it, Meri. Will you just do as I ask?” He slapped the abused hat back on his head, then took her by the arm and pushed her toward the back steps. “I don’t know what kind of threat, but I don’t take chances. For all we know, Mitchell could have sent more men to convince me to sell.”

  “Or my uncle could have stopped by for a visit.” Meredith didn’t resist his forced guidance. His grip wasn’t rough, just insistent. But she meant to make it clear that she didn’t appreciate his high-handed tactics.

  When they got to the back porch, he released her. “I know you haven’t been here long, Meredith, but you’re an Archer now, and you’ve got to learn how Archers do things. We always expect the worst. It keeps us alive. And when someone gives an order, you don’t question it, you follow it. Explanations take time away from setting up our defense, and that leaves us vulnerable. Trust me to do what’s right for you, Meri. It’s for your own protection.”

  She frowned at him, letting him know she wasn’t too pleased with his methods, but dutifully nodded her agreement. “All right.”

  Tra
vis clapped her upper arm in a movement probably meant to convey his satisfaction over her compliance, but the hard lines of his face never softened. She would have preferred a smile. She’d have to make do with the brotherly thud on the arm, though, for he was already striding away from her, heading to the corral, where his mount waited.

  “One of these days you’re going to have to learn that the whole world isn’t out to get you,” she said softly to his retreating back, unsure if he heard her or not, even more unsure if she wanted him to hear. “You’re keeping out more friends than foes with that gate, Travis.” This last observation she whispered to herself.

  She’d follow Travis’s instructions and trust him to protect her, but she’d also follow the directives the Lord had placed on her heart. The Archers might be experts when it came to defense, but they were sadly lacking in their execution of hospitality.

  Meredith marched through the bathing room and into the kitchen. After stoking up the fire in the stove, she took out a mixing bowl and scooped out three large portions of flour from the bin. She sprinkled a pinch of salt into the bowl, then cut in enough lard and cold water to make a dough. Taking the rolling pin from the drawer, she quickly rolled out the crust, not caring what shape resulted from her hasty efforts. Instead of reaching for a pie pan, she selected a large baking sheet from the cupboard and greased it. She cut the dough into strips, laid them in the pan, and dusted them with the leftover cinnamon-sugar mixture she had reserved after making the sweet rolls. While the crisps baked, she tidied the kitchen, then bustled back to her room to tidy herself.

  If their guest proved not to be foe, as she suspected, the brave soul would be showered with neighborly hospitality. It was time the Archers were known for something other than seclusion.

  Travis charged through the trees on Bexar’s back, left hand on the reins, right hand on the butt of his pistol. Catching a shadowy glimpse of a wagon, he slowed the chestnut’s pace and steered him off the path to take cover in a thicket of young pines. Crockett must have heard his approach, for the call of a white-winged dove floated on the breeze. White-winged doves rarely nested this far from the Rio Grande Valley, so when Joseph Archer taught his three older boys to imitate the call, they immediately turned it into a game of secret communication. Later, when they were on their own, it became an essential tool of stealth, allowing them to communicate to one another without being seen.