A Bride for Donnigan (17 page)

Donnigan nodded.

“You really outta stop by and see fer yerself how she’s fixed up the place,” said Wallis. “Ya wouldn’t know it was the same cabin. Sure looks good. Sure does look good.”

Again Donnigan nodded. He secretly wished that Kathleen had shown a bit more interest in fixing up their place; but if she was content with it as it was, why shouldn’t he be?

A sharp whistle rent the air. Wallis spun on his heel and then turned back to Donnigan. “That’s Risa. She’s finished her shoppin’. She’ll be wantin’ to go.” He turned, then said back over his shoulder, “That’s the way she calls me.” He grinned as though it was awfully cute to be summoned in such a way.

Chapter Thirteen

The Tempest

Kathleen lifted her head in surprise.

“I think I could put a lift on your shoe,” Donnigan was saying.

The evenings were too cold now to sit out on the porch. Donnigan had brought his whittling indoors to the warm kitchen.

“A lift?” asked Kathleen.

“By building up the one shoe, the shorter leg would gain length. You wouldn’t need to limp.”

There, the truth was out. He was embarrassed about her limp.

“I worry about your spine,” he went on simply. “I’m afraid the limp is hard on it.”

Kathleen nodded mutely. Her back often ached so badly at night that she couldn’t sleep. Could Donnigan be right?

“Do you mind if I try?” asked Donnigan.

Kathleen shook her head. She still wasn’t sure if she should be thankful or offended.

Donnigan laid aside his whittling and crossed to where Kathleen sat near the stove.

“Let me see,” said Donnigan. “Let me look at your boot.”

Kathleen extended her legs, lifting her long skirts slightly as Donnigan knelt before her and carefully examined each foot.

“Now stand,” said Donnigan. “Let’s see how much—”

Kathleen obediently stood.

“Just as I thought,” mused Donnigan as though to himself. “Not much at all—but it could make a real difference to your spine.”

Donnigan worked many evenings before he was satisfied with the result. At last the boots were given to Kathleen for her to try.

At first the wooden lift made her foot feel clumsy and heavy, but Kathleen was surprised at how quickly she adjusted. Soon she was scurrying about the farm with scarcely a limp at all.

Kathleen stood at the kitchen window and stared balefully at the mounds of drifting snow. She had never heard such mournful wind, felt such bitter chill as with this early winter storm. Donnigan piled firewood almost to the ceiling of the cabin in his effort to keep her from shivering.

“You need warmer clothes,” he told her, fussing over her again. “You’re welcome to my flannel shirts, but I think you’d be swallowed up in them,” he added, surveying her tiny form.

“As soon as the storm breaks, I’ll head for town and look for some warm things for you,” he told her. Kathleen shivered again, this time not just from the cold. Now he felt he had to dress her.

“At least put on a pair of my heavy wool socks,” Donnigan invited as he stuffed more wood into the fire. “Helps a good deal if one’s feet are warm.”

Kathleen made a face behind his back, bit back her temper, and went to the bedroom to comply. She was committed to this marriage. She would not make a scene.

She hated to admit it, but the socks did help considerably. She even managed to stop her shivering.

What made her the most angry about the storm was that she was cooped up indoors after finally being given Donnigan’s permission to ride. After many hours of gentling the brown mare, he had decided that she was ready for Kathleen—within reason. Kathleen was not to ride alone, not to ride the canyon trails south of the pasture, not to allow the mare her head. Kathleen inwardly chaffed over all the restrictions, but she did not argue. She did not wish the privilege to be retracted.

“I thought you might like to name her,” Donnigan had said as he presented the reins to Kathleen for the first time.

“You haven’t named her yet?” Kathleen asked in surprise.

Donnigan nodded. “I did,” he replied, “but my names are never too fancy.”

Kathleen had thought of the big black stallion. She certainly would have named him something different than Black had she been doing the choosing, so she nodded in silent agreement.

Kathleen ran her hand over the smooth nose of the mare and along the shiny neck. “Make friends with her,” Donnigan advised, “but let her know who’s boss.”

It wouldn’t be hard for Kathleen to make friends. She already loved the mare.

Kathleen had named her new mount Shee. “It means elf. My father used to tell me stories about them,” she explained to Donnigan. If he had thought it a strange name for a horse, he had not said so.

They had gone for one ride. The day had been sunny but brisk. They both knew that winter was already rapping gently on Nature’s door and would soon make entrance into their world. Kathleen longed to hold it back. She hated the thought of being confined to the cabin at the very time she had been given access to the trails of Donnigan’s farmlands.

One ride together—one glorious ride, and then the storm had come and shut her in.

Kathleen turned her back to the window and winter. She didn’t want to acknowledge the storm. Because of it she was stuck in the cabin being Donnigan’s little girl again. She had hoped that the freedom she felt on the horse’s back would help her to feel more like an adult, would help Donnigan see her as an adult.

When the storm’s fury had broken, Donnigan went to town. It was still too cold for Kathleen to endure a trip on the cold wagon seat, he told her. Once she had warmer clothes they would go to town together.

In her agitation, Kathleen paced the kitchen, stopping occasionally to shove split logs into the fire with more force than necessary. It was a long day. She thought about going to the barn and saddling Shee for a ride but decided it would be better not to. Donnigan had handled the saddling chores. Kathleen wasn’t quite sure if she could do it right.

“I need to watch what he does so I can do it for myself,” she determined and paced the floor some more.

“I can at least go to the barn,” she finally decided. The horses seemed pleased to see her. She stroked the brown neck of Shee and tried the curry a bit. She even dared to lean across the manger and rub the black’s nose. He snorted and jerked his head, and Kathleen jumped back so quickly that she bumped her head on a support pole.

She decided to give the horses a treat of oats. Just then she heard the rumble of the wagon in the yard. Donnigan was home. She supposed that she should be excited about new clothes. At least curious about what a man would pick. But Kathleen was not. She would have preferred to do her own choosing.

So Kathleen deliberately stalled, slowly scooping oats from the sack nearby and dumping them in the manger bin. The horses snorted and plunged in their noses. Kathleen smiled to herself. She added scoop after scoop until the bins were full. When she could fit no more to the generous helping, she idly tossed the scoop back toward the sack and took her time leaving the barn.

Donnigan was just coming toward her with the team.

“Howdy,” he called in good nature, then frowned slightly. “You better get in,” he added. “You’ll be catching your death of cold.”

Kathleen wrinkled her nose but headed for the house.

Donnigan did not join her for some time. Kathleen put the coffeepot on. He would be chilled and would appreciate a cup.

She stoked the fire again so that the pot would boil quickly.

When Donnigan pushed his way through the door, his arms were filled with packages.

Looks like he bought out the store
, Kathleen thought to herself, and in spite of her resolve she felt a stirring of interest.

But Donnigan looked bothered by something. Never had she seen such darkness in his eyes.

She wished to ask what was wrong, but she bit back the question. It was none of her business, was it?

Donnigan deposited all the parcels on the table. They filled the whole area. Kathleen wondered where he expected her to serve the coffee.

“Should I take—these—to the bedroom?” she asked when he turned to remove his heavy jacket and hang it on the peg by the door.

“Do whatever you want with them,” Donnigan replied in a tone she had not heard him use before. “They’re yours.”

Kathleen’s eyes widened. Something was wrong and that was for sure.

He washed his hands at the basin. She waited for the explosion she was sure would occur. She had remembered hearing that tone in her father’s voice, and it had always been followed by a display of his Irish temper.

“Kathleen,” Donnigan said as he reached for the towel. His voice was controlled—too controlled, as though fighting for patience with an erring child. “Don’t ever feed the horses.”

Kathleen stared at him in surprise. Surely—surely that wasn’t a sin. Was he so possessive—?

“It could have killed them.” His words were almost sharp. Blunt and stabbing.

Kathleen gasped and groped for some response. “I—I only gave them oats,” she managed to say.

He just nodded.

“I’ve seen you give them oats.” Kathleen was surprised at her own boldness. She who had determined not to cause any friction in this marriage was actually answering back to her husband. Madam would have been shocked.

“Yes,” he said and returned the towel to the peg with one quick jerk. She felt that he was losing a bit of his control as well. “Very carefully measured oats,” he said, his face taut with emotion. “If I hadn’t happened home when I did—if those two horses had eaten what they had been given—” He stopped, seemingly unable to even think of the consequences.

He ran a trembling hand through his hair. She waited—her own hand fumbling with the parcel nearest her.

He took a deep breath, fighting hard to get himself in control again. When he spoke, his voice was low and almost pleading. As if he were talking to a child, Kathleen thought, and anger filled her whole being.

“Kathleen.” He crossed the kitchen and stood close to her. “I know the farm is new to you. I know that you have never learned to—to care for stock and—and such. But please—don’t—don’t do things without checking with me. Oats—too many oats—can founder horses. Can kill them at times. We could have lost both horses. The mare and—and Black.” He was almost white with the enormity of her misdeed.

Kathleen’s own face went pale. She had not known. How could she have known?

“Sure then, and why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “Why don’t you teach me? You won’t even talk to me other than telling me what I should or should not do.” Her voice rose as she spoke until she found herself shouting. “You just—just keep treating me like—like I am a child. I’m not! I’m almost eighteen. And I’m not stupid either. I can learn. I’m an adult. Not a child who needs your coddling. Treat me like an adult. Give me some respect.” And with the last words Kathleen’s hand sought the nearest parcel of yardgoods and hurled it at Donnigan. She did not wait for his response. With sobs of anguish she ran to the little bedroom and slammed the door with such force the whole cabin trembled.

She flung herself on the bed and cried. Cried for home and Bridget. Cried for her missing father. Cried because of the empty, lonely place in her heart that would not go away. And cried for her marriage—the one she had just managed to destroy with her outburst. Surely Donnigan would never be able to forgive her for the way she had acted and the angry words she had hurled at him along with the wrapped material. She had just proved that she was indeed the child he thought her to be.