Marry Me (3 page)

The tiny shack squatted not twenty feet away, a box dropped on a wide stretch of stubbornly flat land, looking no more permanent than if he’d emptied one of the crates he unloaded at the docks and plopped it down in the middle of Montana. He’d sweated every nail he’d put into it, worried over it, tried his inexpert best, conscious every instant that it would be his and Julia’s first home. But he’d had to rush because the thin-walled tent he’d temporarily pitched wouldn’t suffice for long.

He’d watched Julia avidly, every time she glanced at his progress. Even more closely the first time he carried her through the door, searching for any sign of disappointment, terrified he’d find revulsion. Her expression never changed; she’d assured him she found it cozy, and that she’d enjoy living there, and that it’d be easy to keep clean. Try as he might, he’d never been able to tell if she told him the truth or not. The claim shack was a million miles from the house she’d grown up in, paled in comparison to even the meanest stables there. But Julia loved him; it was the one thing he’d never doubted. And she’d never let on if he disappointed her.

He’d disappointed himself, though, with a desperate, hollow regret he hadn’t been able to shake. He’d build her a real house, he swore, a beautiful one, solid and sturdy as his love, as their future. He’d promised her, and himself, that. Even planned it, at night as they snuggled into the narrow bunk and her belly grew with their child. Two stories, big enough for a family, with a sunny kitchen and a broad porch and windows that encouraged the breeze.

Moonlight wasn’t kind to the old shack. Old. He’d built it barely two years ago, but it was indisputably old, the roof sagging, the door loose, the tar paper peeling like birch bark.

I’m sorry, Julia.
It was as close as he ever got to a prayer, the refrain he murmured every night, the words he rose to every morning.

I’m so sorry
.

The sound awoke her, a deep heavy rumble that vibrated the bed, her chest. For a moment Emily thought she was still on the train, chugging across the countryside through the night, the car swaying over the track.

She opened her eyes to dense and gloomy gray. Awareness came in stages: not the train, but her new house. And the man—oh darn! That obnoxious man.

“Sir?” Had she just plopped over and fallen asleep while he stared at her? How embarrassing, if not surprising. Years of being called into the clinic in the middle of the night had taught her to fall asleep, suddenly and deeply, when given the opportunity.

“Sir?” she tried again, a bit louder. But maybe, blessedly, he’d slunk off after all. Maybe the fact that the claim was legally hers had finally sunk in. Though he hardly appeared the kind to capitulate easily. And even less the sort who cared much about legalities.

Still no answer; she heard nothing but the wind and the rain and the…

Rain
. “Shoot!” She blasted out of bed, tumbled out of the door, and burst into the storm.

Gray hazed the sky, hinting that morning approached. The curtain of water rippled when the wind picked up. It wasn’t a violent storm, filled with rage and destruction. Instead it was just wet, cold, and drenching, dousing the supplies she’d assumed safe in the yard.

She briefly considered grabbing a blanket to drape over her head, but there seemed no point—she was already soaked. Better to keep dry things dry.

She dashed toward her small, precious cache of supplies. And tripped right over a lump on the ground.

“Ouch!” She skidded on the slippery grass, slid right down onto her rump. Swiping her burning palms on her skirt, she rolled over, and realized in horror exactly what had tripped her.

He sat on the ground a foot from her, for all appearances comfortably settled despite the chilly rain pouring over him, one knee pulled up, his wrist resting on it.

“Oh. It’s you.” She swiped at the rain dripping off her eyelashes, realized it was futile. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

“Obviously.”

“You okay?”

He stared at her so long she had to work not to shift under his regard. Finally he nodded. She waited, until it became clear he’d no intention of saying more.

“I believe I’m all right as well,” she told him, making no attempt to hide the censure in her voice. After so many years with the doctor, she should be accustomed to rude men. But instead she’d never understood what a few simple manners would cost them. When she married, she’d long ago resolved, her first requirement in a husband would be impeccable politeness.

“Figured you were.” He nodded in the direction of her boxes. “Best be getting your stuff in.”

He said it like he’d pegged her as too stupid to drag her things in out of the rain. “I fully intend to,” she said, and went to do just that.

This was going to be almost pathetically easy, Jake thought as he watched her struggle to get a good grip on a rain-slicked crate. She dropped it three times before she maneuvered it through the front door.

If there was ever a woman less cut out for the plains than Julia, it was this one. She’d sat there on her butt, a poor, pitiful kitten some heartless person had pitched out into the storm, her hair matted down around her shoulders, eyes all big and curious and wounded. The rain plastered her clothes to her, soaking down all the frills and ruffles, which made her look half the size she did dry.

She whipped back out of the house again, head down, arms pumping as she went back to her pitiful stack of supplies. Grabbing the handle of a case in both hands, she heaved and lifted it all of maybe three inches off the ground. After pondering for a second, she started backing toward the house, rear stuck out like she was wearing a bustle, even though she wasn’t, dragging the case behind her.

The sky was lightening up in the east, nudging at the edges of the dark clouds. At this rate the rain’d be over by the time she got all her junk inside.

And then she stopped in her tracks, dropping the case where she stood. Hands on her skinny hips, she stared at him through the pulsating waves of water, her mouth puckered up like she was pondering something. Then, her mind made up, she headed for him with the same direct line and determined step she’d taken toward her boxes.

He planted his feet, resisting the urge to turn and run before she reached him. While he’d never claimed much knowledge of women—far from it—even he could recognize one with a plan on her mind. And he figured he wasn’t going to like any scheme hatched in that pretty head.

Pretty. Now, why’d he called her that? It wasn’t something he’d cared much about one way or the other, not in a long time. But she was, he realized when she took up a position a few feet in front of him with all the resolve of a general claiming the high ground. If one was partial to delicate, fine-boned, cream-skinned, huge-eyed females, and he guessed he was, considering he’d noticed and all. He’d thought he’d gotten such things out of his system once and for all. Well, he’d just have to try harder.

“I’ve got a proposition for you, mister…?”

Mutely he returned her leading question with a glare. He didn’t want to know her name, didn’t want her to know his. That would imply a level of connection, however shallow. The first step toward a relationship, even just a slight one, and that was the last thing he needed.

She frowned. “Mister, then.” She almost gave up at that; he saw her waver, but then she squared her shoulders, firm, sharp rounds under thin green cotton nearly black with moisture. “I’ve been thinking. I could use some help moving all my things inside before they float away. And it certainly can’t be comfortable out here for you. So what I suggest is, you could help me lug in a few things—you look like you could take most of it in one load.” She smiled at him, winsome, practically flirty, and he wondered if he looked like he could be flattered that easily. And led about by it so simply. “And then you could share the roof, just until it stops raining.”

Unbelievable. If he’d wanted out of the rain, did she really think she could have kept him out? But there she stood, with her little drowned kitten face and cheerful smile—just what did she have to be so happy about, all things considered? Nearly every woman of his acquaintance would be complaining a blue streak by now, but she clearly didn’t have enough sense to know when she was beat.

All in all, he figured, it’d be doing her a favor, to send her back to her nice, neat, warm life before this place did her any permanent damage.

And so he shook his head slowly.

Her smile never wavered. Maybe even widened a bit.

“Your concern is very kind, but, truly, I don’t think there’s much danger to my reputation out here. Who’d know? And, even if they did, well, I’ve been assured that some of the usual rules of propriety must bow to practicality in the West. It’d be understandable, wouldn’t it? And I’m obviously in no danger from you.”

The raindrops hit his skin and shattered, leaving him tingling and raw. For a man who’d spent a fair amount of time benumbed, trying his best not to feel anything, the sharp edge of sensation was brutally new.

“I like the rain.”

“Oh.” Her brow furrowed; not unhappy, just puzzled. “You could help me move everything inside anyway. Just to be polite.”

It was a wonder she’d made it to Montana whole. It had to be pure, blind good fortune that kept her from falling prey to every confidence man, thief, and plain old rogue west of the Mississippi.

“It’d be pretty stupid of me to help you, wouldn’t it, given that I’d prefer it if you lost everything and had to give up sooner rather than later. I’d have a shot at getting a crop in this year, if I could get started soon enough.”

That earned him a glare, as effective as that kitten hissing at a battle-scarred old tomcat, and he almost laughed.

Almost.

“You’re going to be sadly disappointed if you pin all your hopes on my giving up. I realize you don’t know me, but you’d be wise to trust me when I say that I’m not the quitting kind.”

“Really.” Yeah, he’d bet she’d had to persevere a whole lot in her life. He wondered what had been her biggest challenge. Learning to embroider? Being forced to waltz with a partner who kept stepping on her toes? He jerked his chin in the direction of her drowning supplies. “If you’d kept moving, instead of trying to charm me into doing it for you, you might have most of that stuff inside by now.”

Now, that comment she hadn’t appreciated at all. If she could have, he was sure, she’d have flounced off. Probably flounced real well under normal circumstances. But her petticoats must have soaked up a washtub of water, and so she just spun and squished off.

So he just stood in the rain and watched her scurry frantically back and forth between her cache and his house. And he wasn’t one bit guilty about it.

Damn it, he wasn’t.

H
e was gone.

When Emily, refreshed by sleeping far later than she’d intended, stepped out into streaming sunlight and glistening wet grass and found no sign of her midnight visitor, there’d been a twinge of…something. Not disappointment, certainly. It would be foolish to be disappointed about being easily relieved of a complication, and a very uncongenial one at that. It was merely that when one had spent a fair amount of time and energy preparing for something, having it
not
happen was disconcerting.

And she had prepared.

She’d put on a lovely cream blouse and a winning smile, started a big pot of strong coffee bubbling on the little monkey stove once she’d figured out how to use it. After all, who had more experience with bad-tempered men than she? Plying them with female charm and good coffee worked wonders. Though Gabriel, Anthea’s husband, had cheerfully accused her of unfair manipulation when he caught her trying it out on one of his ranch hands, it was, in her opinion, simple good sense. Men had many advantages in the world; women must even the odds however they could.

And so, Emily consoled herself, merely the loss of an anticipated battle had her frowning when she circled the shack completely and found absolutely no sign of him.
Him.
She still didn’t know his name.

Oh well, she decided, shrugging. She’d plenty to do without worrying about him.

First she spread out all her wet things, strewing them over chair backs and tabletops until the place resembled a laundry more than a home. Then she set to unpacking, humming happily, putting serious consideration into the arrangement of her things. She knew that Norine, Dr. Goodale’s daughter, would dismiss her small treasures without a second glance. It didn’t bother Emily a bit. There was so much pleasure in having to satisfy no one but herself. She’d always felt very much the visitor at the Goodales’, perching lightly in her room without settling in. Her place had always been crystal clear.

But here…if she chose to paint the walls purple, leave her clothes strewn over the floor, drag the kitchen table beside the bed, no one could say her nay.

But her happiness dimmed each time she came across his personal property. Her hands, which had flown through their tasks all morning long, so quickly the rest of her had barely been able to keep up, slowed when they touched the clothes that hung limply over the bed. He’d never said “ours,” only “mine,” as if he’d lived there alone. But there’d obviously been a woman there.

What should she do with it all? It would be a shame to leave things unused, to waste and rot when she had need of them. But so much seemed
his
now; no longer an abstract construct, he’d taken on shape and size and ownership. How could she sleep in his bed, on his sheets, and not wonder about him? The mild curiosity she’d felt yesterday sharpened and focused to a needle point.

Finally she decided to pack up the most personal of the items in case he chose to return for them someday. She’d use the rest—the pots, the furniture, the tools—and consider them part of her claim. She needed them, and if they’d mattered to him at all, surely he would have taken them with him.

Busy as she was, noon came and went before she realized she’d forgotten to eat. But she’d made an excellent dent in her duties; it did not take long to move in, she reflected, when one did not have much to
move
. Unfortunately, she’d also begun a much more extensive list of necessary purchases than her pocketbook would bear.

Deciding to tackle the floor next, she grabbed a bucket in each fist and headed outside. And stopped dead three steps from the door.

“What are you doing?” She dropped both buckets, lifted damp-edged skirts in both hands, and ran. It didn’t take long, for it couldn’t have been more than thirty yards.

He didn’t even look up at her shout, merely lifted the mallet he held and slammed it down, shooting a stake deeply into the ground with one stroke. Around him were stacked boxes and bags, a coil of rope, a neatly folded pile of canvas. To the north, a horse, its coat deep red and shiny in the sun, nibbled at the lush grass and appeared no more interested in her approach than his master did.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting up a tent.” He gripped the stake in one big fist and gave it a waggle. When it stayed firm, he nodded and rose.

She’d known he was big. His shirts would have covered her twice over, and last night he’d had to duck to come through the door. Still, knowing it in a vague, general way was very different from coming up against an immovable man, as big as life. It was difficult to go toe to toe with someone when your nose was level with his chest, a very broad chest covered in worn and stained cotton.

“I thought you left.”

“I did.” He paced off three long steps. “Now I’m back.”

“But—” She scanned all the boxes that littered the site and wondered how the poor horse had managed to carry everything. “You can’t put all that here!”

“Really?” he asked mildly, as if she’d just commented on the fine weather.

“Yes, really.” Her temper threatened to spike, and she held on to it with effort. She truly was sympathetic to his plight. But it would be much easier to remain so if he didn’t persist in being so, well, rude about the whole thing. “I understand this must be difficult for you, but surely you understood the terms of homesteading when you filed. When you left, you must have known it would likely be claimed by the time you returned.”

“Never planned to come back.” And then he jerked, his arm halting in mid-swing before dropping to his side, as if he hadn’t intended to say that and the words caught him by surprise.

“I see.” His hair, shaggy, dark, hung low to his shoulders; an equally wild beard covered the rest of his face, making it nearly impossible to read his expression. Only a glimpse of his eyes gave anything away, dark as his hair, deeply guarded. More like a wounded bear than an angry one.

He dragged over a pine crate and pried off the top, revealing neat rows of cans that gleamed dully in the sun. “Understood the rules just fine.” He straightened, speared her with a glare. “Do I look like I couldn’t understand what I signed my name to?”

Perhaps that had occurred to her. Maybe. “Do I look like the sort of woman who’d make hasty assumptions about others based on incomplete information?”

“Yeah, you do.” And then, before she could protest, “Also looks like you’re too slick to admit it.”

“Now who’s making assumptions?”

“Me,” he admitted, completely unconcerned with her accusation. He kicked at the roll of canvas, unfurling the creamy material against the rich deep green of the prairie grass.

Around them the land, which seemed so flat and monotonous at first glance, seethed with life. Blue-bells and anemones popped open across it, drifts of color veiling the green. A hawk swooped low and wheeled back up, swift and sure.

She could see why he found it hard to give up. But there was plenty of land here, great stretches of it, surely enough for both of them. She couldn’t afford to go looking for another place. But even if she left, he was still going to have to pay the fees again and could do it as easily on another claim as on this one.

“I understand this must be difficult for you—”

“You keep sayin’ that.” His voice flattened, hard and flinty as shale. “You don’t know anything about what it must be for me. Not one damn thing.”

“Nevertheless, we’re going to have to discuss our…predicament. This is obviously unacceptable.”

“What’s to discuss? Soon as you give up, I’m moving in.” He heaved the canvas over the frame he’d constructed and bent to tie the ropes around the stakes he’d buried. “That’s all either one of us needs to know.”

Emily was famous for her patience, her cheerful good nature. The worst tantrums of Dr. Goodale’s most difficult patients never fazed her. And yet, when he bent over his work, ignoring her and leaving her with a view of the back of his head, his thick, tangled hair, blue shirt torn open and fraying over a powerful shoulder, she’d never been so tempted to battle to the end.

“This is my land, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. You’re going to have to pack this all up and take it back to where you got it.”

“Yeah? You gonna put me over your shoulder and throw me off?”

“You can’t simply camp here and wait for me to fail!”

“Can’t I?” He sat back on his heels and looked up at her, shadowy eyes glinting with what, in any other man, might have been amusement. “Watch me.”

After she’d marched back to the shack, her skirts swishing furiously around what he was sure were skinny little bird legs, she didn’t poke her nose out for almost an hour. Once or twice he thought he caught a flutter of movement in the window, at which point he threw himself into theatrically arranging his meager camp. It wasn’t long on comfort, but he’d slept in far worse. And he wasn’t planning to live in the tent for long.

And then she came back, crossing that thirty yards like Napoleon taking the battlefield, arms pumping, head high. She’d gussied up some, had on a frothy little hat with a white feather that dipped low and drew attention to her eyes, a shiny blue blouse that made her skin look like cream, and gloves so white they reflected the sun.

He mentally trimmed the time he figured he’d have to wait for her to go running back to wherever she’d sprouted. She’d last until wash day, maybe, the first time she had to lug and heat enough water to try and stay that fresh and neat.

This one didn’t really think he’d be susceptible to a prettied-up female, did she? That he’d take one look at her all dressed up for battle and say:
Oh sure, ma’am, keep it. Whatever you want
.

Not to mention that if charming him out of his claim was what she had in mind, she’d do better to see if she couldn’t manage a friendlier expression. She looked more like someone on her way to clean an outhouse than flatter a man out of his land.

He’d no idea what brought her to Montana. Told himself he didn’t care, refused to be the slightest bit interested in her story. But still…she wasn’t the usual type to come there—a sturdy farm girl, a determined widow. Probably just caught by some stray whim, he decided, trying to avoid the suitor Daddy picked out for her.

“I’m leaving,” she began.

“So soon?” he interrupted. “Thanks for cleaning up the place for me, by the way. Looks good.”

“Not permanently!” Heat flashed into her cheeks. Her fingers flexed in those pristine white gloves, as if she wished she could wrap them around his neck. “I have some”—she hesitated delicately—“business to attend to.”

“Nice of you to keep me informed. Right neighborly of you.”

“I’ll be back this evening. Tomorrow, at the very latest.”

He waited.

“I came to inform you that my absence is merely temporary. I am not, I repeat”—she glared at him, as if by doing so she could bore the words right into his thick skull—“
not
quitting the place permanently.”

“Understood you the first time.”

“Well, in our brief acquaintance, I have discovered the necessity of being absolutely precise in my explanations. Therefore I am also informing you that it would be a
very
bad action on your part to simply take up residence in my absence.”

Now there was an idea. Not that he had any legal right to do so, but forcing her to try to pry him out might be worth the trouble. “Would I do that?”

“As of this point, I do not believe I have tested the limits of what you
would
do.” Her feather dropped into her eye, and she huffed it away. “However, I do believe that the government has recently taken a more active interest in prosecuting claim jumpers. While I freely admit to my own inability to remove you bodily myself, I expect federal agents might be somewhat more successful.”

He hadn’t meant to watch her leave. No reason to waste any more time on her than necessary. Still, he found himself looking after her, watching her feather bob gallantly with each step, her small figure disappear and reappear as she strode over swells and back down into draws. The grass waved as high as her thighs, but it didn’t slow her a bit, her pace steadily urgent, heading off into the emptiness until the sun’s glare swallowed her up.

Maybe he should follow her. The thought jerked his head back—now where the hell had that come from? If there was ever a person less equipped to go chasing off alone into the middle of nowhere, he couldn’t imagine it. She was liable to wander around in circles until her feet fell off.

And wouldn’t it be downright dumb of him, halting his work to make sure she was safe and sound? It was broad daylight, and the weather promised to be fine for some time. They’d never had much problem with rattlesnakes in this section of the state, the coyotes stayed away from people most of the time, and the Indians were safely tucked behind reservation fences. Plus he’d noticed when he rode out here that there were a lot more claim shacks scattered around than when he’d left—she couldn’t go more than a mile or two without stumbling onto one. She’d be fine. And really, wouldn’t a night spent cold and lonely and lost be just what she needed to send her skittering back East? Hell, he’d drive her to the train himself.

And, later that evening, after he’d pried open a tin of beans and wolfed them down cold, when he took Reg out for a long ride just before sunset, he assured himself he did it only for the entertainment.

She didn’t return until the next morning after all, and she brought a man back with her.

A skinny man with a gait like a turkey, all trussed up in a fancy gray suit, who drove her home in a nifty little buggy pulled by a handsome gray gelding Jake couldn’t help but envy. He handed her down—pretty manners, this one; leave it to her to find the one man in Montana exactly like all the ones she’d left back East.

She shot Jake one glance—simmering with triumph that he could detect even all the way over there—before they disappeared into the shack. Before long a tendril of smoke curled out of the pipe, drifting against the flawless blue sky. Making him lunch, no doubt. Wasn’t taking her any time at all to show off her culinary skills.