Heartbreak Creek (13 page)

Instant quiet. Cherubic faces all around.

How did Pru do that?

“Chick,” Declan prodded, with a warning look. “And this time without the fire and brimstone.”

“Oh. Yes, sir. Well . . . let’s see. Bless this food, amen. How’s that?”

“Fine. Now serve the damn stew.”

“Pa said a cuss word,” Brin crowed. “He has to eat slops!”

Edwina closed her eyes as pandemonium broke out again. Her first supper in her new home with her new family. A total failure.

If she hadn’t been laughing so hard, she might have wept.

E
xcept for Rusty, no one ate slops. At least as far as Declan could tell; he and Amos had left well before dawn and had been too busy clearing a rockslide from a water hole to go back to the house for lunch.

After a long morning digging in rocky soil, they were settling in the shade of a scraggly juniper to dine on cold beans and jerky when R.D. rode up, his saddlebags bulging with food the women had prepared. Grateful and pleased, Declan gobbled down panfried chicken, fresh corn muffins, two hard-boiled eggs, and dried peaches. Not a bad lunch. Maybe this wife thing would work out after all, as long as the mulatto stayed.

After R.D. left, he and Amos continued working through the afternoon moving rocks. When they finally got the water flowing again—such as it was—the sun was slipping behind Swallow Peak, and the air was cooling fast. Bone tired, they mounted up and headed home.

The Milky Way was a misty band across a cloudless indigo sky by the time they splashed through the creek. As they reined toward the barn, Declan noted the house was quiet and dark except for the faint glow of a single lamp in the kitchen wing. He sighed. Another meal missed. Rotating the kinks out of his knotted shoulders, he drew in a deep breath that smelled of wood smoke and sage. Even with only a cold supper and a lumpy settee awaiting him, he was glad to be home.

After tending the horses and turning them out, they crossed to the back door, the crunch of their boots on the rocky ground sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness of the night. He stepped onto the stoop and pulled open the door, then froze, startled by the sight of his wife sitting in a chair by the stove, sewing on something.

She looked up, eyes wide. Then seeing who it was, her expression softened into a hesitant smile. “I was starting to worry.”

About what? Him?

Setting her sewing aside, she rose and motioned them in. “Come sit. You, too, Mr. Hicks. I’ve kept supper warm.”

Suddenly Declan was conscious of how dirty he was, and how pretty she looked in the lamplight. He wondered if she’d been waiting up for him and if so, why? Then he forgot the question when she pulled two overflowing plates from the oven, and the smell of roasted beef, and mashed potatoes, and collards with bacon sang to his empty stomach.

Amos nudged him from behind.

“We need to wash,” Declan muttered, and turned to shove the old preacher back across the stoop.

When they returned a few minutes later, their plates were waiting on the table and his wife was back in her chair, sewing. He hung his hat on a peg beside the door, sent Amos a look telling him to do the same, then took his chair at the end of the table. They wolfed down the food.

She glanced up from her sewing every now and then, but said nothing.

Just as well. He wouldn’t have taken the time to respond. The meal was that good. He wondered if she had cooked it or if she had left it to the mulatto. “Where’s Miss Lincoln?” he asked between bites.

She gave that half smile again, her eyes reflecting back the lamplight like tiny twin fires. “Asleep. She’s had a hard day.”

He motioned with his fork. “Doing all this?”

“The garden. Pru loves to dig in the dirt.”

Did that mean his wife cooked this fine meal? There was hope yet.

“And to supervise me, of course.”

Hope faded.

She went back to her sewing, taking small precise stitches, her fingers nimble and quick. He had a sudden image of those same fingers stroking the foot rail of his bed, and felt again that odd rush of heat along his back.

Uneasy with where his thoughts had wandered, he steered his mind to a safer subject. “The children help out today?” He’d told R.D. to work with Chick in the foaling pen—some of the mares were getting close—but the three younger children were to stay available in case they were needed.

“With Pru? Yes.”

“Not you?”

She bit off the thread, then folded the cloth. It appeared to be a dress, but seemed too small. Maybe an apron. Women loved their aprons.

When she looked up again, her lips were pursed—either in disapproval or to hold back a grin.

Declan guessed a grin. For all her shortcomings, the woman dearly loved to smile. And laugh. At him, mostly. Not being a big laugher himself, it was a bit disconcerting. Although in truth, he didn’t mind being smiled at now and then, even though he didn’t entirely trust it.

“When they were with me,” she said, her eyes dancing in the wavering light, “they mostly tried to look up my skirts.”

Declan stopped chewing. “They what?”

Before she could answer, Amos’s fork clattered to his empty tin plate. Shoving back his chair, he abruptly rose, muttered, “Th-Thanks, ma’am,” and fled the room.

Declan sat, nonplussed, watching Miss Priss clear away Amos’s plate and fork. After setting them in the sink, she turned to face him, leaning back with her elbows bent behind her, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. The pose stretched the fabric of her dress tight across her breasts, flattening them in such a way Declan saw they were fuller than he had thought. He found himself waiting for one of those tiny pearl buttons to slip free.

“Apparently,” she went on, jerking him back on track, “between that ghastly blessing at dinner, and Joe Bill’s wild imagination, they’re convinced I have a devil tail.”

“A devil tail?” He managed not to smile.

“I don’t think they like me very much.” She said it offhandedly, as if it didn’t matter, but he heard a contradiction in her voice.

“It’s not you,” he assured her and hoped it wasn’t a lie. “It’s the idea of you. Give them time.” He felt a momentary regret that he hadn’t prepared his children better for a new ma, then shrugged it off, telling himself she hadn’t helped the situation by throwing all those rules at them first thing.

“I would have fixed more had I known you’d be so hungry.”

He looked down, realized he had eaten everything on his plate, and set down his fork. Yet he was reluctant to leave, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe just trying to put off another back-cramping night on that lumpy settee Sally had insisted they buy for the parlor.

Or maybe there was another reason.

Silence spread through the room to the rhythmic tick of the stove as it cooled. He folded and refolded his unused napkin and set it beside his plate, wondering why he didn’t get up and leave. He was glad she didn’t feel the need to chatter all the time, but was also bothered by it since he didn’t know what she was thinking, or if she was waiting for him to speak—about what, he had no idea. He’d never been that comfortable around women—except for the obvious, of course, but that didn’t require talking. In social situations, he mostly felt big and awkward, not sure what he was supposed to say or what was expected of him. During his years with Sally, those awkward moments had stretched into long silences that had eventually grown into indifference so thick it had formed a wall between them. He wondered if that would happen with this wife, too, and if he would come to a point when he might try harder to keep that wall from forming.

“I cleaned the parlor today.”

He nodded, relieved to have the silence over. “That’s nice.”

“I removed the saddle. Hope you don’t mind.”

“There was a saddle in there?”

“Two, in fact. And saddlebags. I had R.D. take them to the barn.”

She had a nice voice when she wasn’t preaching or passing out rules. Soft and musical, dragging out the words in more syllables than were there, finishing on a higher note at the ends of her sentences. It kept him listening, pulled him closer to hear more.

“It’s a lovely room,” she went on. “But that settee is much too small for a man your size.”

He watched her, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, wondering if this was an invitation to return to his own bed. Maybe with her. The idea made the muscles across his chest tighten and his breathing go shallow. His mind said it wouldn’t be wise—they hardly knew each other—it was too soon.

But his body said maybe not.

He took a sip of water and cursed himself for not visiting Rosemarie when he was in town.

“Mr. McElroy found two spare mattresses in the bunkhouse,” she said. “We aired them out. He and R.D. made a platform with boards and kegs they found in the barn, and I found linens in the cabinet by the stairs. It’s a bit makeshift, but with the mattresses pushed together, it should at least be wide enough. I think you’ll be more comfortable.”

Not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed that he wouldn’t be back in his own bed, Declan nodded his thanks.

“Will you be gone tomorrow as well?” she asked.

“Mostly. Roundup’s starting.”

“I see.”

He cleared his throat and shifted in the chair. “I might need R.D. and Joe Bill, but I’ll leave Chick to watch over the house.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

She must have seen his skeptical look. “I’m a good rider,” she insisted. “I had the most beautiful plantation walking horse you ever saw.”

Gaited horses were useless in mountains. But instead of pointing that out, he said, “Send lunch. That way Amos won’t have to stop to fix it.”

She smiled like that was the finest idea she’d heard all day. “Lovely.”

He wondered why she was being so agreeable all of a sudden and where the prickly hothead he’d married had gone. Not that he minded; a biddable woman was a rare and wondrous thing . . . or so he’d heard. He’d never met any, except for whores, but they were paid to be agreeable so that didn’t count. And this woman was definitely not a whore. Pity, that. Pushing back his chair, he rose.

“Will you be wanting breakfast before you leave?”

He hesitated, his hand resting on the back of the chair. “It’ll be early.”

“You should eat something.”

“I’ll grab some jerky.”

She had come away from the counter and was leaning across the table to pick up his plate and fork. The motion opened a gap where she’d loosened her collar, and Declan caught a glimpse of creamy flesh. Again, he had to force himself to look away.

She carried his dishes to the sink, wiped the counter with a rag, then faced him as she dried her hands. “I’m sorry we overslept and didn’t fix you something this morning. You must have been very quiet.”

He was. So quiet he’d heard every sound coming from the open loft over the kitchen. A snore, a sigh, the rustle of bedcovers. Sounds that seemed alien and out of place in the dawn stillness of his house—sounds that reminded him he was no longer alone—that he was married to the woman upstairs in his bed, and if he let her, she would change his life forever. “You probably couldn’t hear me over your snoring.”

She stopped drying. “I do not snore.”

“Must have been the mulatto, then.”

Anger flared in her eyes. She slapped the rag onto the counter with such violence, Declan blinked in surprise. “Don’t call her that,” she snapped, taking a step toward him. “Or nigra, or darky, or girl, or nigger, or half-blood, or any of the other hateful names people throw around so easily. She’s more than the color of her skin or the amount of white blood in her veins. She’s a person and my friend. Call her Prudence or Miss Lincoln.”

Declan felt the heat of shame rise in his neck. She was right and he knew better. He’d had similar conversations with his children about Thomas Redstone’s mixed blood. “I’ll remember that.” Feeling foolish, he walked to the parlor door and opened it. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Declan.”

He pulled the door closed behind him, then stood there, shrouded in shadow, breathing in the scents of furniture wax, musty bedding, and that faint flowery smell from the packets of dried flowers Sally used to slip between the folds of the good linens.

Declan.
A two-syllable word she managed to make into three.

He tensed as footfalls approached his door. Lamplight showed in the gap by the floor, then quickly faded as she started up the stairs, the hollow thump of her heels on the treads marking her progress. Then overhead, the creak of the floorboards as she crossed the bedroom. A different creak when the wardrobe door opened and closed. A moment later, softer footfalls as she crossed barefoot to the screened water closet.

Then silence. Yet he remained frozen in darkness, his imagination detailing every movement. Her long, graceful fingers unbuttoning the tiny pearl buttons one by one. The dress sliding away. Did she wear a corset? He couldn’t remember if he’d felt one when he’d lifted her down from the wagon the day before. She had no need of it—she was so slim his hands had almost spanned her tiny waist.

He looked up when he heard a soft thump on the floor above him, and pictured those round breasts swinging free as she bent to step out of her petticoats, then rising firm and high when she lifted her arms to unpin her long, shiny hair.

Did she sleep in a thick flannel gown like Sally had? Or something frilly and sheer?

More footfalls toward the bed. A muffled sigh, then silence again.

Disgusted with his own foolishness, Declan turned away, his body tight and his mind rattled by his wild imaginings. After stripping off his clothes, he flopped back on his put-together bed and stared up at the ceiling, his fingers laced behind his head.

What the hell was wrong with him?