Adela's Prairie Suitor (The Annex Mail-Order Brides Book 1) (6 page)

They took the two rocking chairs on either side of the window. Adela nudged her chair into a gentle sway. “I probably only remember the good things—calves and chicks in the spring, freshly plowed earth, swinging from an oak tree, making a playhouse under the elderberry bushes. But as I wrote, I was only ten when my parents died. That’s when I had to go live with my aunt and uncle.”

“I remember all those things from my childhood,” Byron said, then added, “except for the playhouse, but my pals and I played like we were cowboys on a cattle drive.”

Adela sounded a delightful little laugh. “Even boys in the city pretend to be cowboys. At least you had real cows to drive.”

“A few. If Pa hadn’t passed on, I was going to start a small ranch for wayward boys.”

This interested Adela enough so that she stopped rocking. Something made him want to tell her his dreams. “We have a few troublesome lads the church has been trying to help. Pastor Reinhart says it’s the church’s first duty to care for the widows and orphans, and these boys are orphans of a sort.”

Adela’s dark brows rose as if she wanted to hear more so he continued. “One of them’s pa ran off when he was a little fellow. Another one’s pa is in prison. Only one of them’s pa is dead, but it don’t matter. All of them need a man’s help.”

“Mrs. Hawkins said you were a deacon.”

Byron laughed. How did such tales get started? “No, I just help out with the boys. They seem to trust me more than anyone ‘cause I’m near to them in age, I guess.”

“That’s wonderful, noble thing to do. Of course you must build that ranch.” She said it like it was easy to do. Funny, her confidence made it seem easier to him.

His chest puffed a bit, then deflated in a sigh. “The trouble is, it’s been a hard year for the farm since Pa died. I’m not bringing in nearly enough money. Crops have been down, but there’s something else…prices have dropped, I guess, but others say not much. I can’t figure it out.”

She laid a small hand on his arm. “You will figure it out. God is in this plan to help those boys, I know it.”

“Yeah?” He couldn’t hold back a wide grin. “Well, tell me about yourself. How’d you get a job with ladies that go to Harvard? Heard that’s the hardest college in the country.”

Her countenance fell, and she moistened her lips as her hands gripped the arms of the rocker. “I wasn’t exactly honest with you about that.” She swallowed and turned her deep brown, pleading eyes on him. “I wasn’t working for those ladies. I was one of them.”

“You were going to college?” He tried to understand why she’d keep that secret. “Nothing wrong with that. Why did you think I’d mind?”

She turned her head from the light, and he couldn’t see her features, but her voice strained. “I was afraid you’d think I was…I suppose I thought…well, the men back east were intimidated by educated women. They thought us haughty.”

Byron chuckled under his breath. That attitude was understandable. East or west, men didn’t want to compete with women. The way things were, a man had to compete with every other man, the idea of competing with women too wasn’t pleasant. But Byron had never been intimidated by women—or men.

He still didn’t see why she thought her education would offend him, but it obviously did. The cord in her neck strained with tension. Tapping her on the shoulder, he leaned in. As he hoped, she shifted around to make eye contact. “I remember the Blackwell sisters and Ruby Singleton. In school those three girls whipped every boy in class in every subject. But they’re happily married now. The girls, not the boys, though, yeah, most of them are happily married too. Out here folks don’t put as much stock in education as they do back east. So, there’s no reason to be cowed. I always figured girls liked bookwork more, but the truth is, they have more time. The boys have to work in the fields—not as much time for study.”

She favored him with a half-hearted smile as a light breeze lifted the chestnut-colored tendrils hugging her face. Her mouth worked like she wanted to cry, and he sought to forestall that with a grin. “I’m sorry I was dishonest with you.”

“That’s all right, Adela.” He tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you. I should have warned you about Hilda Jane…and while we’re confessing, I ought to tell you the farm’s not doing so well this year. We didn’t have enough rain in planting season.” He shrugged one shoulder. “The truth is, I might have to sell that land I was going to use for a ranch. But don’t apologize for being smart.”

“I’m not smart, not smart enough for Harvard, anyway.” She scooted forward and threw her hands apart. “My aunt and uncle believed I was sent to them to take care of them in their old age. They didn’t say that, but I got the message as the years went by, and they discouraged any suitors.”

Byron scowled his disgust, and she waved a hand. “Don’t misunderstand. I was grateful they gave me a place to stay.” He didn’t miss the way she put it. Surely a child needed more than a place to stay.

Having gotten herself under control, Adela visibly relaxed. “I was working in my uncle’s law office one day when Carianne and Ramee came in. Carianne was a client, or rather her English grandmother, Lady Gaylenshire, was. They told me Lady Gaylenshire was sponsoring four young ladies to go to Harvard—the first women to do so. And they were short one lady.”

A few moments passed with her looking down at her lap, her lips set in a pout. A desire to kiss those lips hit him hard. The only thing keeping him from doing so was the creak of his mother’s rocker.

Adela glanced at him from under her lashes, obviously unaware of his amorous thoughts. “I let Carianne and Ramee talk me into joining them. I suppose I saw it as a means of escape from the drudgery of living like a servant in my uncle’s house.”

“But you weren’t satisfied with college.” He didn’t have to ask. Her tone said it all.

She shook her head. “Oh, my friends were like sisters to me. But college was too hard, and I wasn’t learning anything that would lead to a job to support myself. It didn’t fit my goals.”

“What are your goals?”

“To find a home.”

The simple statement was full of yearning. Any lingering doubts he had that she would make a perfect wife faded like frost in late spring
. He reached out and took her small hand. “I think that’s a goal we all have.”

She pulled her hand away with a laugh. “Going to Harvard was probably a waste of time, though no education is a waste, I guess. I undoubtedly brought away something. But after last term, I knew I couldn’t keep up, and I didn’t want to bring the other women down, some of whom are very smart, including my friends, Prudie and Carianne. Ramee too, though she enjoys the social gatherings a lot more than studies.”

Her nervous tone, and the way she put some distance between them, told him she wasn’t ready for familiarity. He’d have to take things slowly. “I’m glad you told me. I was kind of surprised that a lady like you wanted to come out here to the prairie when there were so many rich and learned men to choose from back east.”

He knew Adela would laugh at that, and she didn’t disappoint. “Harvard men don’t look for educated women. They have two requirements for women, and I’m afraid I didn’t measure up to either.” She held up one finger. “First of all, they expect their wives to be schooled in all the social graces.” A second finger joined the first. “And they must be beautiful.”

“I think you measure up to both, especially the second.” He held her eyes in a long gaze, the silence only broken by an owl’s hoot.

Even through the dim lighting, he could see her face turn ruby red. “It’s k…kind of you to s…say so,” she stammered. “I’ve never felt I could compare to gracious and beautiful women. Prudie is by far the most beautiful of our set, and she ruins her chances by arguing with the gentlemen. Carianne is quite pretty and very personable, but her grandmother has plans for her to find a suitor in England. Ramee is lovely and gracious. If any of us marry a Harvard man, she will.”

“Do you always compare yourself to your friends?”

Her shoulders rose on a sigh. “I suppose I do—not that we compete with each other, but they’re so ambitious and have such wonderful attributes, I feel I come up short in comparison.”

“But you haven’t been treated very wonderful out here.” No, she’d been treated rather shabbily so far, something he should have foreseen. “You’ll be able to make new lady friends easily. You can’t use Hilda Jane as an example. Most of the women around here are already married, but, well…if…that is, if you stay, you will be too.”

He decided he’d better bring up another subject. “What books do you like? I have a few books you might like. I think I mentioned in my letters I like the old classics. Have you read the
Canterbury Tales
?”

“I have, and I love Chaucer and Shakespeare.”

The discussion of books led to music, then to history, then to the seasons as Adela described the climate of New England, and Byron explained the beauty and unpredictable weather of the plains.

He was telling her about the past winter when Ma stuck her head out the open window. “Byron, it’s my bedtime, and I’m sure Miss Mason is tired. You’ve been talking over an hour.”

Jumping to his feet, Byron pulled out his watch, holding it to the light. Nine o’clock. How could they have been talking that long? “She’s right, Miss Mason. I’ve talked your ear off. Let’s go in, shall we?”

“I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.” Adela walked past him as he held the door open. “Good-night, Mrs. Calhoun.”

He watched the sway of her skirt as she glided toward her room. She didn’t enjoy it more than he did.

Adela arose the next day, determined to make herself useful. Mrs. Calhoun was still adamant that she didn’t need help. Grand. Maybe Adela could find something to do outside.

She stepped onto the porch where a brisk wind greeted her. After running back inside for her shawl, she knotted it and made for the corral. The cows were gone, taken to pasture, no doubt, but the horses pranced about. Wishing she’d brought an apple or carrots, she held onto the fence and made clicking sounds. After a few minutes, a roan mare came up, tossing her head.

Adela reached through the fence to rub her nose. “You’re a beauty, girl,” she crooned. The horse was obviously gentle, and Adela wondered if she might ask Byron if she could ride. Did he have a side-saddle? Some western women rode astride, but she couldn’t imagine riding that way.

She strode along behind the barn and found the pig pen. A sow and seven well grown pigs wallowed in the mud. Memories took her back to her parents’ farm. She’d been allowed to raise her own pig each year, and rather than it being slaughtered along with the others, it would be sold to another farmer. Never mind that the pig faced the same fate on another farm. At least Papa spared her from having to watch her pet being slaughtered.

Best not get attached to either pigs or cows. She couldn’t expect Byron to skirt around her tender emotions. In time she’d probably be expected to kill a chicken for dinner as her mother had done. Hopefully, not for a long time.

Shrill squealing drew her attention to where one of the pigs was caught between the boards of the pen on the other side. The pig had dug down until it got itself wedged in. Silly thing. All it had to do was back out. She’d always been told pigs were smart, but apparently this one was the exception.

Making her way to the gate, she decided to rescue the stupid pig. With a fugitive glance to the sow, she slipped through the gate and secured it behind her. She grabbed the pig by its rump and pulled it backward. The pig’s death-curdling squeals caught the sow’s attention.

Before Adela could make it back to the gate, the sow cut her off. The animal pointed straight at Adela, its head shaking. Trapped in the corner, Adela saw no escape except over the top. She grabbed the top railing and screamed. Heart pumping, she heaved herself up just as the sow charged into the fence. She didn’t have the strength to get over the top, but each time the sow circled and charged, she lifted her legs, letting her skirt take the impact of the blow.

Her muscles screamed from the strain, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she wouldn’t have the strength to pull herself up. Was this to be the end of her dreams? Trampled in a pig pen. Shutting her eyes, she screamed again and again.

Holding onto the last of her endurance, she felt strong hands go under her arms as she was lifted over the top of the fence.

Fear ebbed away, and an entirely new emotion descended. She was crushed to Byron’s chest, could hear his heart racing, feel the strength of his arms. In spite of her fright, it felt good.

All too soon, he let her down. He bent over, propping his hands on his knees and heaving like he couldn’t get enough breath. Her hammering heart left her breathless too, and not entirely due to fright.

She shifted her gaze over his head to where the plow and mule stood in a field of corn stalks. He’d abandoned them and ran all the way to rescue her. Shame heated her cheeks. She’d so wanted to impress him with her farm knowledge. What a greenhorn he must think her. She’d proved herself a fool and a nuisance, pulling him away from his chores.

When he could get his breath, he straightened and sent a piercing gray glance her way. “What were you doing in the pig pen, Adela?”

“One of the pigs got stuck, and I…I foolishly thought I could get in and out before the sow noticed.”

“Never go into the pig pen with a sow and her pigs.”

“I know I shouldn’t have. I only wanted to look around.” A cold wind struck her legs, and her glance fell to the tattered remains of her skirt billowing. Her face flamed anew as she jerked back, her hands wildly groping to find enough fabric to cover herself.

“Well, no harm done, this time, except to that pretty dress.”

She forced herself to meet his amused gaze. His smile gave her strength to steady her voice. “It’s not important. I’d like to make myself a chore dress as soon as I can get to town to purchase the fabric. Could I go with you the next time you go?”

“Sure thing. We’ll go this afternoon. Sewing might be a lot safer than pig wrestling.”