Mail Order Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1) (9 page)

A short while later, when she returned to the house with a half-full bucket of water, she slowed when she discovered Briggs lounging in a chair outside the front door with his back to her, one foot raised and resting on a barrel, Shadow sitting beside him. They were both facing the sunset. Sarah stopped and gently set the bucket in the grass, realizing he hadn’t heard her footsteps beneath the hissing whisper of the wind across the grass and wheat.

It was odd, how the first day of this marriage seemed more like a battle than a relationship. She had revealed nothing of her true self since they’d arrived here—but of course she was as much to blame as he was for the state of things at this moment. Probably more so, since she was the one who had admitted to loving someone else mere weeks before she accepted Briggs’s offer.

Her battle instincts somewhat deflated, Sarah picked up the bucket and walked toward her husband. She understood where his hostility was coming from—they’d gotten off to a bad start, to be sure—and she realized she wanted things to be better. She was tired of being angry. It was time to stop perpetuating the friction. Perhaps, if she warmed up to him, he would let it go.

When she paused in front of him, he dropped his leg to the ground and squinted up at her. “Did you have a nice
skip
down to the creek?”

Putting it behind them, it seemed, was going to prove a challenge. “Yes, I did, thank you.” Her shadow fell across his face, and she waited for his next attempt to rile her, but surprisingly, he leaned forward and placed his large hand on her hip.

Sarah’s blood burst into hot embers, speeding through her veins. What in Heaven’s name was he doing, and why couldn’t she relax about it? They were married, after all.

“You’re blocking my view of the sunset.” He gently pushed her to the side. The dog whimpered.

Sarah stood like a fool with her hands at her sides, her heart racing while she had to remind herself to breathe. She wished she could just live here without reacting so strongly to this man’s every move. She simply had to give it more time, she decided. This was only their first day. Once she got used to things, she’d barely notice his presence.

He crossed his ankle over his knee, then glanced up at her again. “Don’t you have something to do?”

Unable to understand how a man could be so attractive in one way and so utterly contemptible in another, Sarah bit her tongue to keep from saying what she
really
wanted to say to him, which would not be the least bit ladylike. Maybe a hearty supper might warm his nature a bit—and hers as well.

She turned to go inside, clinging to that hope. “Come in anytime. Food will be on the table, waiting.”

* * *

Briggs rubbed Shadow’s ears, then stretched his arms over his head, wishing he hadn’t sent Sarah all the way to the creek for fresh water when she was obviously exhausted. He sure did overdo it with her today. The things she told him about her ex-lover had bothered him more than he realized, he reckoned.

He rose from the chair and pulled it back against the front wall of the house, glanced once more at the scarlet-streaked sky, then retreated with Shadow into the dark little soddie.

“I’ll light a lantern,” he said, reaching the bottom step, then his gaze fell upon Sarah whose head was resting in her arms on the table, her eyes closed.

Briggs crossed the room to the lamp by the bed and struck a match, breathing in the scent of sulphur as he lowered the flame to the wick. He expected Sarah to wake, startled upon seeing him in the sudden light, but the poor exhausted girl continued to sleep. His stomach roared with a reminder that he had not eaten since breakfast, and his eyes searched the stove for food.

When he looked at the golden biscuits arranged with care on a plate, the table set with an unlit candle in the center and some fresh wildflowers in a cup, a stone of regret weighed heavily in his gut. Sarah was trying hard to make a cheerful adjustment. Why couldn’t he?

Briggs moved to the stove and uncovered the pot to find a thick stew simmering with salt pork and potatoes. Just the smell was enough to buckle his knees. Still holding the lid, he turned to check on Sarah, who was still sleeping quietly. He looked around for a couple of tin bowls, served stew for the both of them, and set Sarah’s down first.

“Sarah,” he whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. “Are you hungry?”

She did not respond, so he knelt beside her chair to study her face. Her chin was cradled in her arms, her full lips puckered, her long lashes swept down. She looked so innocent. Child-like. The sight of her reminded him of happier days when June, his youngest sister, would fall asleep where she sat, usually in the middle of some game after a valiant battle to stay awake. He closed his eyes, trying to see her again. His heart at first warmed with the memory, then it flooded with sadness and longing. June would have had her fifth birthday this Christmas.

He pushed those thoughts away and looked again at Sarah. When was
her
birthday? He had no idea.

She whimpered sweetly, and he found himself wondering what in all the world she was dreaming about to be so far away that she would not awaken at his touch. He wondered if she was dreaming of the man she had loved.

He felt a sudden jolt of irritation.

He rose to his feet and shook Sarah again. “Sarah, wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

She stirred, finally, and raised her chin as if in a daze. “Oh,” she murmured. “I must have fallen asleep. It’s time for supper.”

She made a move to push her chair back, but stopped when Briggs said, “I’ve already taken it up.”

She leaned back, blinking. Then she noticed the bowl in front of her. “Thank you, but I could have gotten it.”

He gathered his bowl of stew from the stove and sat across from her. “I know.”

Sarah cupped her hands together, pausing before lifting her spoon. Feeling ill-at-ease, Briggs realized that prayer was something he’d forgotten over the past few months, ever since he’d stopped being thankful.

He cleared his throat. “Would you like to say a few words?”

“I thought you might like to.” She stared at him silently until he had no choice but to comply.

Closing his eyes, he thanked the Good Lord for the meal, the sunny day, and the roof over their heads. He quickly said “Amen,” then opened his eyes to find Sarah still staring at him. “Pass the biscuits,” he said gruffly, even though he could easily reach them himself.

She handed the plate across the small table, then jumped as if something bit her. “Water!” She rose from her chair and filled two cups from the pail next to the stove. “I walked all the way to the creek for this and forgot to serve it up.” She set the tin cup in front of him and sat down.

“You know,” he said, “if you knew how to drive the wagon, you could fill the barrels. I’d help you set them down outside, and the rain would top them up every once in a while. It would save you walking down there ten times a day.”

Sarah paused with her spoon in mid-air. “That would be very kind of you.”

They dug into their meals, but a second later, Briggs couldn’t help adding, “In fact, maybe I’ll do it for you in the morning before I head out to the field.”

Why was he offering to do that? he asked himself. He had work to do and he was behind as it was. The harvester would arrive in only a week.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, then continued eating her stew.

Chairs squeaked, the lantern hissed, but neither of them spoke a word. Briggs leaned into his plate, savoring each bite, believing this had to be the best meal this little sod house had ever seen. The only decent meals he’d eaten were over at his neighbor’s place. Martha, Howard’s wife, could make a meal out of sod if she had to.

When he emptied his bowl, Sarah stood immediately, as if she’d been measuring his progress. “Can I refill that for you?”

“Please.” She set another helping of steaming stew in front of him.

He ate his supper quietly, thinking. Maybe one day of anger was enough. Not that he’d forgiven her for lying to him and for being fixed on some other fella’, but he’d brought her here for a reason and there was work to be done before winter. She had a lot to learn and in all honesty, he couldn’t teach her. How Martha managed to run that household with the few resources available out here had always astounded him.

He swallowed another bite and looked up. “It might be a good idea for you to visit the Whitikers tomorrow.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted. “The Whitikers? You mean we have neighbors?”

“About two miles past the creek.”

“But I thought we were the only settlers around. I didn’t see any homes on the way out here.”

“That’s because most of them are living in dugouts. Unless you know where they are, they’re easy to miss. The Whitikers live in a sod house, above the ground. You shouldn’t have a problem finding them. You might want to talk to Martha about how to survive out here.”

He could feel Sarah’s steady gaze upon him and suspected she was a little surprised he’d bothered to suggest it, but there was no time for ignorance at harvest time. “I told her about you. I reckon she’s expecting you to come by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? That’s wonderful.” He noticed the excitement in her voice, even though she tried to hide it.

“Don’t expect me to come with you for a formal introduction, though. I’m too busy. Quite frankly, things out here won’t always be as proper as you’re used to. Necessity and survival come first. In a bad storm, whole families will share their house with the chickens if it means saving the flock. So be prepared for a different kind of—”

“I get your point,” she interrupted, shoving her chair back. She began to clear the table and abruptly changed the subject. “I was thinking that butter might be nice, but I didn’t see a churn.”

“There’s one in the barn. I’ll get it after supper.”

“Thank you. Shall I make coffee?”

“Sure.”

Sarah walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To get some more….I have to light the fire again. It went out when I fell asleep.”

He saw the look of failure in her eyes and realized how desperately she had wanted everything to be perfect. “You know,” he said, rising and moving toward her. “I didn’t really want coffee. It’s usually a morning beverage for me. Keeps me up at night, otherwise. I was just being polite.”

They stood face to face, perhaps a little too close, staring curiously at each other. “I see.”

In that moment, Briggs realized with some discomfort that they were about to spend their first night together. In their home as man and wife.

He glanced at the narrow bed, imagining how crowded it would be. Their bodies would be pressed together all night long, whether or not he wanted it that way. And despite Sarah’s pretty face, despite her tempting, alluring womanly curves and sweet, perfumed scent, the thought of touching her made something inside him squirm. How could he lay his hands on a woman who was probably dreaming about someone else? How could he make love to her, knowing another man had her heart?

Briggs felt his cheeks flush with fiery irritation. None of this should matter to him, he knew, but he could not fight the irrational urge to find this man, wherever he was, and show him what the muddy ground looked like up close. What had he been up to, robbing a woman of her innocence out of wedlock, then leaving her so desperate, she had to answer an ad to become another man’s wife?

Was she with child?

Aw, hell
.

Angry at himself for falling into this trap—if that’s what it was—Briggs decided to leave the house.

“I’ll go get that butter churn.” He breezed by Sarah and made a dash for the door.

As he walked across the yard feeling the coolness of evening touch his skin, he thought of her, only seconds ago, standing uncomfortably at the bottom of the steps, dreading the necessity of lighting another fire, but doing her best to hide it. If he had wanted coffee, he reckoned she would have prepared it with a smile, and something about that made him wish she could be a little less conscientious. At least then, it would be easier to tell her that he intended to sleep in the barn that night, and every night until he knew for sure that she was not carrying some other man’s child.

Chapter Eight

The next morning when Sarah woke, it seemed as if the sun had gone on a holiday. The tiny house was as black as a preacher’s Sunday cloak. She sat up and looked around, relieved to see some sign of the world—a narrow ribbon of light sneaking in through a clean patch on the dust-covered window and illuminating a single sod in the far corner just above the toppling mound of cow chips.

What time was it? she wondered sleepily, stretching her arms over her head. She glanced over the one room house, wishing there was a clock ticking somewhere. Anything to disturb the perpetual silence.

Sluggishly, she tossed the blanket aside, swung her legs off the edge of the bed, and laid her bare feet on the cold dirt floor. She yawned and touched the pearls around her neck, wondering why in the world she was still wearing them, and to bed, no less. As she considered it further, she knew she wore them because they were a piece of her old life. The life before Garrison.

Forcing that unpleasantness from her mind, she reached for her gold time piece. Holding it up to the dim light and focusing on the fine black hands against the white background, she felt her insides twist like a corkscrew. Ten o’clock!