The Mail Order Bride of Break Heart Bend (Break Heart Brides Book 2)
Page 4
Such abuse had rendered him not merely immune to society’s general attitude but rather prone to redheads in general. Deckom being the obvious exception.
Many men didn’t like red hair in a woman, thinking it signified a too-independent nature. Rafe, well, he liked it for the same reason. But still, it was irritating to think he shared the same taste with a man who didn’t treat his horse right.
“I congratulate you, Mr. Deckom,” he said drily. “I didn’t think there was a single young lady of marriageable age available the length or breadth of the three counties.”
“Well, now, you’ve got a point there.” Deckom motioned for a refill. “However, five bits of fresh calico arrived at the Lilac Hotel in Break Heart not a month ago. Sisters orphaned by an encounter with Break Heart Bend.”
To Rafe’s dismay, Deckom nodded at Seth to refill Cephas’s glass.
Deckom noticed Rafe’s disapproval and started talking faster and real cheerful-like. “Now, one of ’em’s already married off, one’s a bit young yet to head to the altar, and I’ve laid claim to my Charity. I’d say any fella looking at the other two better not take his time about it. There’s a mail order bride lady in town just chomping at the bit to do the honors.”
“Mail order bride lady.” Cephas giggled.
Rafe sighed inwardly. That a man like Deckom could find a real corker of a red-headed gal clever enough to stab him with his own knife yet gullible enough to be willing to marry him—well, life just wasn’t fair.
And today it wasn’t fair to Red John Deckom.
“Sorry you made the journey for naught, Mr. Deckom.” Rafe stood and picked up his hat. “The Morning Star won’t have any horseflesh for sale for the foreseeable future.”
The cheerfulness fell off Deckom’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m sorry to have to say it.”
“The foreseeable future.” Cephas nodded like a sage, staring into the air at who knew what.
On his way out, Rafe pulled the bartender aside. “I have pressing business at the ranch and can’t stay. But the next time I’m in Rosamund, if I hear Cephas came to any kind of grief due to the drink he’s had today, I will hold you to account.”
As he reached the door, Deckom called out, “You’re right. It was a long ride for nothing.”
Rafe stopped at the threshold. “Well, I would have telegraphed, but I had no address.”
Deckom’s bluster evaporated, and Rafe got the feeling the man wasn’t proud of where he lived. This reaffirmed his decision. He was relieved no living creature from the Morning Star would fall into Red John Deckom’s hands.
He only hoped when he got back to the ranch all its creatures still would be—living, that is.
Chapter 5
Morning Star Ranch
Penelope’s labor had been going on for three hard days, and when Rafe got back from town and saw the gathering of men leaning against the foaling pen in a hush, he uttered a prayer for his brother’s sake. It would kill Pres if anything happened to that horse. Penelope had belonged to Rosamund.
Rafe took care of Hecate, then hurried out to the pen. A flash in Cookie’s eyes warned him to stay back with the men at the fence. Inside the pen, Preston approached the mare lying on the ground beside her just-born foal.
Pres might be the owner of the most prosperous ranch in three counties, but he never shirked a task merely because the job was difficult or the outcome uncertain.
“That’s right, girl.” The gentle tone made Rafe catch his breath. “You did fine.” It had been a long while since he’d heard his brother speak so kindly to any living being.
“There, there.” Pres removed the last of the birth sac from the foal’s spindly hind legs and carefully nudged the newborn into the mare’s line of sight. All the while, he clucked and cooed at Penelope. “That’s my good girl.”
Corby took off his neckerchief to wipe his forehead, and Cookie leaned farther over the rail, a look of real concern in the crusty old-timer’s eyes.
Rafe’s stomach clenched. Was something wrong?
“The longer she stays on the ground, the better, right?” He turned to Corby, whose way with horses knew no bounds. “She’ll be calmer if she can see her foal, no?”
“Reckon so.” The ranch’s foreman stuffed his neckerchief into his back pocket and worked his jaw, his eyes not on the newborn but intent on the mother.
Not reassuring.
Pres continued to stroke Penelope’s neck, which only worried Rafe more. In any other man, you’d expect this warmth and gentle manner, basic tenderness with a foaling mare. But nobody would describe Preston Morgan as tender. Or gentle. Or warm. The owner of Morning Star Ranch was known for being as impenetrable as a wall of ice.
And yet, watching his brother now, Rafe felt hope. Somewhere deep down inside, the old Pres still lived. The big brother he’d hero-worshipped as a boy had been drawn out by his concern for the mare.
“Not bad for an old lady, eh Pres?” Corby called out.
Rafe and Cookie shared a smile. The mare wasn’t really that old, but at fifteen she should be near the end of her fertile years. Everybody had been surprised when she turned up pregnant, but Pres had been angry on hearing the news. Rafe couldn’t account for it at the time, but he understood it now.
It wasn’t anger then but fear. Aside from the kids, Penelope was one of the last living reminders of Rosamund Pres had left.
Pres backed away from the pair on the ground, leaving them to rest and recover. He turned and gave a thumbs-up, and Rafe and the others exploded with applause. Corby issued his singular four-fingered, ear-spitting whistle, and Cookie let out what sounded like a long-held breath. For good measure, Rafe delivered his own rousing whoop! and Rhubarb and the others added to the general expression of celebration and relief.
Just as Pres joined them, the front door of the main house slammed open and young boots pounded across the porch and down the stairs.
“Murderation!”
Rafe’s niece Lissy raced to the pen and clambered up onto the fence to sit between him and her daddy.
She did own a dress, maybe even two, which she’d reluctantly wear on Sundays, but as she explained in exasperation to all who dared poke their noses into her business, dresses were a nuisance when climbing trees and just about any other thing worth doing.
“I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, and I missed it!”
“Your whole life, huh, Lissy-girl?” Rafe chuckled and tugged at one of her blond pigtails, the pale gold color inherited from her mother.
Granted, gestation in horses took long enough it might seem a lifetime to a twelve-year-old. Truth be told, these past fifteen minutes had felt like a lifetime to Rafe.
“Lost in a book, I reckon,” Cookie said fondly. “I swear a tornado could carry the house away, and if our Lissy was reading, she wouldn’t notice a thing.”
“I was doing research.” Lissy wrinkled her nose at Cookie, but relented with a smile. Then she fisted her daddy’s shirtsleeve, eyes glistening. “Filly or colt?”
“Colt.”
“Darn it all! I was sure it was going to be a filly. I had some terrific names picked out. If she was black, Nyx, the goddess of night, and if she was brown, Gaia, the earth goddess.
“Where’s your brother?” Pres said shortly. But then he stopped, seemed to correct himself, and touched Lissy’s shoulder. “I do like the sound of Nyx. Maybe the next filly will be black.”
Attentive. Almost fatherly. Maybe the emotion he’d shown with Penelope had been an icebreaker. Maybe the old Pres was going to stick around.
Not that Pres was ever cruel with Lissy. He was just not… not really there for her. Even less so with his younger child. Pres couldn’t mention the son Rosamund had died bringing into the world without bringing the blue devils on himself, but this was a change. For once, he’d asked about the boy.
“Last I saw Ug, he was in the kitchen,” Lissy said. “Pitting cherries for Consuela.”
“Ug’s only five, Pa.” Lissy rolled her eyes. “He’s still practically a baby.”
It struck Rafe that the age difference between his niece and nephew was seven years, same as between him and Pres. Had his big brother scoffed like that over him once upon a time?
“Colt, filly—either one, it’s a mighty fine little thing.” Corby only had eyes for Penelope’s foal, now making its first attempt to stand on legs skinny as sticks. “Look at him. Already full of vinegar.”
Cookie snorted. “Corby Jackson, you think every horse born on God’s green earth is perfect.”
Rafe crossed his arms over the fence’s top rail. Anybody could see the colt was full of some kind of juice. “This time Corby might be right.”
This was a good day. Rafe’s life wasn’t yet the picture of happiness he’d made in his mind: his own place, a sweet wife, a passel of rowdy kids, good friends, amenable neighbors, and making justice in an unjust world. But on a day like today, it was easier to believe it could happen, all of it.
“I wonder if he’ll be pure black,” Lissy said. “He doesn’t have a blaze, and his legs and feet are dark too.”
A horse wasn’t born on the ranch every day, and the men gave themselves permission to stay right where they were a mite longer—just to make sure all was well before getting back to chores calling their names as they readied for the cattle drive to Cheyenne.
One of life’s pleasures was watching a newborn foal find his legs and discover the joy of being alive in the world. It didn’t take long before the colt was steady on all fours, and not much longer till he was prancing awkwardly but purposefully around his mother. Penelope, still on the ground, kept a watchful eye on her offspring, who tossed his head and flared his nostrils at either a passing bee or an imagined foe.
“He’s going to be a rascal.” Coming from Corby, that wasn’t a prediction but a promise.
“We should call him Hades,” Lissy said.
It was tradition that all foals born at the Morning Star were named for characters from Greek or Roman mythology.
“Was that the subject of your research?” Heaven knew Pres didn’t smile often. It was as if he’d given his daughter the world. “Hades it is.”
“All righty then.” Cookie pushed away from the fence. “My onions ain’t gonna chop themselves, and the chuckwagon ain’t gonna load itself.”
The hands made signs of getting back to work, and Pres told Lissy to go see if Consuela needed more help. When she complained, he said, “You can’t sit in your room reading all day. There’s work to be done.”
“I could use some help in the barn,” Rhubarb said. “Aphrodite could use a good brush down.” He was just trying to be helpful, but he earned a glare from the big bug.
Of course Lissy’s face lit up.
And of course Pres relented.
What could he do? That Lissy-girl was her mother’s daughter, a born rancher, and there was no getting around it. Besides, there was nothing wrong in knowing how to care for a horse, and she had years and years to go before she’d need to run a household.
Speaking of the barn, Rafe remembered his earlier errand, put off by the arrival of Hades. “Hold up,” he called out to the scattering ranch hands. “Mail call!”
When he’d returned from town, he’d left the mail pouch in his saddlebag in the barn. He retrieved it now and brought it out to a gathering of men eager for news from back home.
Most had come to the Morning Star from other towns and other states, some to escape their pasts, some looking for a better life, and some just wanting something different. Delivering their letters to the post in town and bringing back what came in addressed to the ranch was one of Rafe’s more satisfying chores.
Pres believed keeping correspondence was a civilizing influence on men whose lives were often lonely, despite living in close quarters, and he provided paper and ink to all as well as a supply of the new stylographic pens. Lissy was glad to read letters for the hands who couldn’t themselves and to write down what they dictated in answer.
Today everybody but Cookie, as usual, had a letter. Rafe was pretty sure the bunkhouse cook didn’t read or write, but there was no reason he couldn’t get or send mail. Could be he had no family, but Rafe wasn’t about to pry into another man’s personal affairs. Cookie would tell his story in his own time, if ever he was of a mind.
Rafe smiled at the last envelope he pulled from the pouch, recognizing his mother’s the handwriting. “Here’s one for you, Lissy-girl, from your grandma in Albany.”
“Hurray!”
“You save that until after you tend to Aphrodite.”
“Yes, Pa.”
Pres headed back to the house, and although the last letter at the bottom of the pouch had his name on it, Rafe didn’t mention it. He’d recognized the handwriting before reading the return address.
It was from Mrs. Abigail Vanderhouten in Break Heart, the town that had won the new railroad stop over Rosamund. She was the matchmaker John Deckom had spoken of. Rafe was aware of her business. He just hadn’t felt like discussing anybody’s love life with Deckom.
Every spring when the snow melted, Mrs. Vanderhouten wrote to Pres with a fervid description of the latest potential brides she had on offer. And every spring when he received her letter, Pres swore a mild oath and then threw her appeals into the fire.
Rafe chuckled to himself. The woman was persistent, he’d give her that. Here it was only a month gone by, and she’d written again. The arrival of five bits of calico, as Deckom had called the sisters, must have inspired her to redouble her efforts.
It was a lost cause, of course. Preston Morgan would never get over the loss of his dear wife, Rosamund. She’d been the love of his life. He didn’t have room—and he refused to make room—for another.
No need to tempt fate and spoil Pres’s good mood. The letter could stay right where it was. Later, Rafe would consign it to the flames himself.
Chapter 6
The saddest place in the big house was the dining room, designed and furnished in a more optimistic time. Rafe always sat across from Lissy and Ug, with Pres, the head of the family, on his left. From that little gathering, the heavy oak table stretched out seemingly forever, empty of the large tribe it was built to accommodate.
But tonight all changed. Happiness found its way in. Pres smiled—even chuckled once or twice—at Lissy’s proud recounting of her research into possible names for Penelope’s foal.
“If we ever get a palomino colt, we could name him Apollo,” she said, “after the god of the sun.”
“Or”—her pa circled his fork in the air—“if Corby pronounces him full of vinegar, we could call the colt Phaeton, after the one who took Apollo’s chariot out for a wild ride across the heavens.”
“Pa! You know about the gods and goddesses?”
“Anyone who remains ignorant of civilization’s history can’t claim to be civilized.”
“Ci-vi-lized.” Ug rolled the word on his tongue like an unsettling echo of Cephas at the Dilly-Dally.
Pres winked at the boy and leaned back in his chair. “After I came to work at the Morning Star, it was some while before your mother would let me into her library. It was her pa’s prize accomplishment, you see, and she’d added to the collection on her own.” He let slip a private, secret smile. “I was well aware of the compliment she paid me, allowing me to cross that hallowed threshold.”
Rafe had the feeling his brother wasn’t talking about the library anymore.
“I was over the moon for my brave, lovely Rosamund.”
The table went silent, and everybody but Pres held their breath. Ug blinked and Rafe exchanged a stunned look with his niece. Pres never spoke of his dead wife. Rafe prayed the fragile spell wouldn’t
break.
This was his happy brother of old. As a toddler, Rafe used to dog after that happy Pres everywhere, mimicking his mannerisms and repeating his favorite sayings. Big brother Pres, always laughing and joking, while middle brother Schuyler had his head stuck in books. Looking back, Rafe understood now that these were responses to their unstable, sometimes violent father.
Rafe’s way had been to make himself small, unseen. He knew the house’s best hiding spots, inside and out. There were times, though, when his brothers weren’t home and hiding wasn’t an option. Times he had to put himself between his mother and his father’s fists.
By the time their father was just a bad memory, bitten by the gold bug and off searching for easy riches, Pres had become Rafe’s model of ideal manhood. Rafe idolized him. While Pa chased fever dreams, Pres did his duty and joined the army. Rafe would have followed if he’d been old enough.
He was sixteen when his mother at last received a triumphant letter from out West. It seemed Pa had made a goodly strike, not of gold but of silver, and would soon return to her a wealthy man. Weeks went by with no further word. Finally Pres, home from the war only a month, set off for Colorado to bring the man home.
He found the grave of Ezekiel Morgan near a petered-out claim on the South Platte River, along with several tales, all conflicting, none convincing, about what had happened to Zeke and whether there ever was any silver of note.
Entirely by chance, Pres met Rosamund. Her parents had died and left her alone with the ranch, and over the course of helping her with that spring’s roundup she and Pres fell in love.
That was twelve years ago. Rafe never blamed his brother for staying out West. Judging by his letters, how could the man have done any different? The last one before Rafe himself left for Colorado had painted a fine picture indeed.