Mara McBain

Copyright
& Legal Information

Copyright © 2012 by Mara McBain

McCade’s Way

All rights reserved by author.

Contact Author at
MaraMcBain.Com

Published by Wynwidyn Press, LLC

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to:

Wynwidyn Press, LLC, and Attention:

Permissions Department, 1360 E.

M-36, Suite C, Pinckney, Michigan, 48169

Cover Art By: Darren Wheeling

~
Dedication
~

To the hubby and our son for tolerating my obsessions, Shari for starting it all with an innocent prompted Google search, Cass for being my little Sis and loyal minion, and Adri for not laughing when I told you about my long-haired cowboy in the middle of NaNoWriMo.
 I love you all!

Head resting against the train window, she watched the moonlit trees roll by. Around her the other passengers slept, but her jumbled thoughts and pounding heart kept sleep at bay. Her fingers stroked the envelopes in her lap. It was too dark to read the words now, but she knew them by heart. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the lush orchards and rolling pastureland in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. His words, gruff other times, had seemed poetic when he spoke of his home.  After the squalor of the shanty town, it sounded like heaven. It sounded too good to be true.

Her empty stomach cramped, and she pressed her palm against it to quiet the growl. She thought about the half a sandwich she had left and decided to save it for morning. Mechanical issues had already extended the trip by hours. Who knew if he would be on time to meet the train?
What if he doesn’t come?
She bit her lip and tried to ignore the whisper of doubt. Her elderly neighbor, Ida, had thought her crazy to accept a proposal after only two terse letters. Genevieve shrugged her bony shoulders in the dark. With her father gone, jobs were few and far between, and she was no pretty face to secure a husband the traditional way.

She fingered a wisp of her copper hair. She had told Trey in her first letter that she had red hair and was of more than average height. It wasn’t a complete confession, but it was the truth. He had seemed accepting in his response and had even reassured her that he was an exceptionally tall man. Not for the first time, she prayed he was telling the truth. It had been her limited experience that men didn’t like being looked in the eye by a woman, and they liked looking up at her even less. How many times had her father felt the need to take her down a peg or two? She grimaced at the antiquated term and added a prayer her new husband wouldn’t be intimidated by a strong woman.

Husband.
The word sounded foreign even in her thoughts. She bit her lip.
Her husband, Trey.
She smiled. It was an unusual name, but she liked how it rolled off her tongue. He’d explained in a postscript to his first letter that though his full name was Thomas Darrell McCade, he was the third, so his mother had called him Trey to differentiate between him and his father. She smiled. It was an interesting story and a tiny insight into the man she was marrying. She prayed with a name like that he didn’t share her father’s love of dice and cards.

Yawning, she shifted in her seat to ease tense muscles. Staring at the dim outline of the envelopes again, she brought them to her lips for a reverent kiss. She was no starry-eyed girl searching for Prince Charming and the fairytale. She just wanted a chance at a life, and maybe happiness. The president had promised them a
New Deal
and relief from the crippling poverty and starvation that gripped everyone right now. It sounded like the answer to all their prayers if he could deliver. Trey had offered her a warm bed, solid walls, and food on the table if she would agree to be his wife. Her mother had often said when you offer your prayers to God, be prepared to walk through the door he opens. She was stepping through the door on blind faith.

Her heart hammered as she stepped off the train. Bodies jostled her as she hesitated, taking in her surroundings. Wetting her lips, she shook out her skirt and wrapped her simple wool coat tighter around her. She scanned the station. Trey had said he would be here to meet her. Not having a picture to send him, she hadn’t asked for one. She knew only what he had told her. He had said he was tall, wore his hair longer than fashion, and would be wearing a Stetson. How difficult could that be to spot? 

Collecting her shabby suitcase, she stepped to the side where she could watch the comings and goings out of the way. Ida’s dire warnings whispered in her mind. She didn’t have enough for a return ticket. If he didn’t show up, she was stuck in a city where she didn’t know a soul. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her thundering heart and quell her fears. She turned at a prickle on her nape. Dark eyes traveled up and down her in a leisurely crawl that sent a shiver down her spine. The man was of average height and only a few strands of hair trailed across his shiny scalp. A rough work shirt stretched across his ample belly, straining the material. A slow smile turned his thin lips and her stomach. She shook her head.

Her head spun around hopefully at a deep male voice asking about her train. She caught her breath. The largest man she had ever seen stood at the counter. The span of his broad shoulders strained the chambray shirt he wore. Sturdy Levi Straus denim encased tree trunk legs down to scuffed cowboy boots. Her lungs ached for oxygen. Panicked grey eyes traveled back up the giant to settle on the black Stetson.

Her already queasy stomach threatened to expel its limited contents. His knuckles drummed impatiently on the counter. He had fists like ham hocks. She jumped at a movement behind her. The greasy little man opened his mouth. Genevieve’s gaze snapped back to the giant. She wet her lips.

“Mr. McCade?”

His blue eyes pinned her in place, and he straightened slowly from the counter.
Sweet Jesus
. He towered over her willowy form by nearly a foot. Deep furrows creased his forehead, coming to a ridge over his strong nose. Her knees shook. The other man said something behind her, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the giant’s. The big man stepped toward her. He moved with an easy grace at odds with his lumbering size. He stopped in front of her. She fought the desire to step back. His frown left her face and focused over her left shoulder. She heard the little man retreat with babbled apologies. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip to hold back a nervous giggle. The giant’s lips twitched beneath the dark gold of his goatee, and he looked down at her with a quirked brow.

“Miss Kelly?” he asked in a low bass that seemed to vibrate through her.

“Yes, sir.

He continued to stare, his expression unreadable.

“You’re not ugly,” he said as if coming to a conclusion. “But I guess you’ll do.”

Genevieve’s mouth dropped open. Heat suffused her face.

“Thank you, Mr. McCade. I’m glad my looks won’t be too terrible of a hardship for you,” she snapped.

He glared. She glared back.

“You said you were ugly.”

“I said I was plain,” she corrected.

“Well you aren’t,” he barked.

She opened her mouth to respond and found herself speechless. Was the man really complaining that she was too good looking? First off, she knew better. Secondly, what did one say to that?

“It’s beside the point now. You’re here,” he grumbled, picking up her small case. “Let’s go get married so we can get home.”

“Your romanticism knows no bounds,” she muttered under her breath.

He spun to glare at her. She swallowed hard and took a step back. His big hand closed around the top of her arm and drew her back toward him.

“If you have something to say to me, say it.”

She bit her lip. How many times had her mother told her to think before she spoke, or her father told her to watch the way she spoke to men? She was not off to the most favorable start with her new husband. It would seem he didn’t have the sunniest of dispositions. The last thing she needed was for him to decide she needed to be taken down a peg or two on her wedding day.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for,” she said softly. “I’m overtired from the long trip.”

He stared at her for a moment and then gave a tight nod and straightened. Swiping a hand over his goatee, he offered his arm this time.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” she admitted softly.

He nodded again as they stepped out of the train station. Steering her easily to a dusty blue Chevrolet truck, he put her suitcase in the back and then escorted her across the street. She stumbled. He steadied her with seeming ease.

“You okay?”

She blushed and nodded as he stared at her. Lowering her gaze, she determinedly lengthened her stride to keep up with him. She stepped through the door he held open and was assailed by mouthwatering aromas. Her stomach growled, and she tightened her grip on his arm as her knees felt wobbly. He held out a chair for her. She murmured her thanks and sat down a little self-consciously. She tried to remember the last time she had eaten in a restaurant.

“Order what you want,” Trey rumbled, setting his Stetson beside him and handing over a menu.

“Thank you. This is very nice of you.”

“I don’t come into town often. It’s a small extravagance on our wedding day.”

Her hands shook as she looked over the menu, trying to ignore the prices and the shame that coursed through her. He had promised her a solid roof over her head, a warm bed, and food in her belly. It seemed he was determined to keep that promise even if she wasn’t what he had been expecting. Her stomach twisted as, not for the first time, she wondered what Trey got out of this deal. Father Patrick had said that Trey McCade was a farmer, a simple man, a good man, who wanted a strong, God fearing woman to share his farm and life with. Trey’s first wife had been the Father’s sister, of the familial sort. The Father had reassured her that her looks and height weren’t important. It seemed he might have been mistaken on her looks.

Genevieve stole a look at Trey from the corner of her eye. Though his sheer size was intimidating, and his look far from fashionable, he was a handsome man. She tried to picture what he would look like in a suit. With his broad shoulders, barrel chest, and dark blond ponytail hanging down between his shoulders, this was no sharp useless business man. With the times as they were, she found his blue-collar solidness comforting.

The waitress arrived at their table with a pitcher of ice water and filled their glasses. Genevieve listened to the low rumble of Trey’s drawl as he ordered. A little quiver went through her and it wasn’t exactly fear. Her new husband had a very attractive voice.

“What can I get for you, ma’am?”

Genevieve started and blushed. She fumbled the menu, suddenly unable to focus on the words in front of her.

“I’ll have the same. Thank you,” she finally managed, handing the menu to the woman before she made more of a fool of herself. Flushed with embarrassment, she fussed with her coat, suddenly too warm. Trey stood and pulled her chair out.

“Let me help you with that.”

Genevieve stood, whispering her thanks, and let him help her out of the wool garment and hang it on a nearby coat tree. As they were reseated, she could feel his curious gaze on her. She took her time taking a sip of her water, trying to will her hands to stop shaking. The tension thickened. She finally stole a look at him. His expression was slightly bemused.

“Do you even know what you ordered?”

Her blush deepened and he chuckled. It was a deep, pleasant sound. She looked down at the table cloth, fighting a smile of her own and shook her head.

“Is roast beef and mashed potatoes to your liking or should I call the waitress back?” he asked, amusement heavy in his voice.

Her stomach growled audibly, and she couldn’t hold back a giggle.

“I can’t tell you how wonderful that sounds. I’m sorry. I was,” she struggled for the right word and cleared her throat. “…distracted, by your voice,” she finished awkwardly.

“My voice?” he asked in a deadpan tone.

“It’s very pleasant. A person could get lost just listening to it.”

He stared at her, his brows drawing together in puzzlement.

“My father used to say that I got lost in my imagination, but that a smack upside the head always brought me back. Perhaps this is the same,” she said with a self-deprecating smile.

His bewilderment deepened to a fearsome frown. For a long moment she was afraid that she had unintentionally upset him again and he was going to take her up on the smack upside the head.

“Patrick just said your father lost his business. What happened?”

Genevieve hesitated at the change in topic. His voice was hard now. She missed the humor. Straightening her shoulders, she told him the truth.

“When the market crashed it came out that my father owed a lot of money to some very unsavory people. He had a gambling problem that he kept well hidden. We lost the family bakery and, with it, our home upstairs. It broke my mother’s heart. The bakery had been in her family for three generations. She didn’t make it through the first winter in the shantytown. My father had married into what money he had and didn’t see any reason to change a successful formula. So instead of turning his attention to finding new employment, he chose to spend his time, and what little money he made from odd jobs, in the pubs looking for a rich spouse for one of us. Unfortunately, I don’t have the looks to inspire a wealthy suitor. I believe that my father’s creditors eventually grew tired of waiting for their money. He didn’t come home one night. They found him in a trash bin.”

If possible, Trey’s frown had become even more pronounced. He shook his head, lips pressed into a tight line. When he spoke his voice was a low, ominous rumble.

“A real man doesn’t risk more than he can afford to lose.”

Genevieve didn’t have a response for that. It made sense. When the food arrived at that moment, she welcomed the interruption. When Trey didn’t pursue the conversation, they ate in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

Furtively holding onto the door, Genevieve stared out the window as the truck sped down the road. She was so angry she was afraid to even look at Trey. They had walked over to the church only to discover the pastor had been called away for an emergency. The last two hours had quickly shown her that her new husband was a man of action and few words. Leaving strict orders with the boy at the church to come and find him the moment the pastor returned, he had decided to do a perfunctory inspection of her suitcase. Without so much as a by your leave, he had inspected the meager contents and apparently found them lacking. The next hour and a half she had spent being poked and prodded in a ladies boutique.

When she had voiced her reluctance to a new wardrobe, he had overrode her protests and half a dozen new dresses, all the accompanying underclothes, two unbelievable nightgowns, and two pair of shoes now lay on the seat between them. She could still feel the heat in her cheeks, and it had taken every ounce of pride she possessed to hold back tears under the censorious eye of the seamstress. She had no doubt the woman’s thoughts had mirrored her own. The money Trey McCade had just tossed down would have fed a family for a month, maybe longer. How could he justify that?