ROMANCE: MAIL ORDER BRIDE: The Other Man’s Baby (A Clean Christian Historical Western) (New Adult Inspirational Pregnancy Romance) (30 page)

Catherine placed her hand over his heart.  “When you came forward today, I expected you to be disappointed.”

“Why?” he asked. 

“I’m half Indian.  My father was a white buffalo hunter, my mother was Comanche.  When she died birthing me, the tribe took me to the mission.  I was raised white, but I’m not.”

“Catherine,” he said, his hands on her buttons, “I’m no prize but I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you now.  If you’re willing .  .  .  “

His days were busy with the back-breaking work of a rancher.  He accepted good-naturedly the bridegroom teasing from his hands; they would be respectful in the company of his wife, but it was no-holds-barred when a woman wasn’t present.  Men were men and men desired women, and when that was the topic, white or Indian didn’t matter.  For two weeks, he didn’t leave the ranch, taking care of the work that had to be done and then at day’s end, returning to the cabin and Catherine’s sweet homecoming.  He mentioned that they’d need to be heading into town soon for supplies, but her expression showed apprehension and he left the subject drop. 

Catherine knew her housewifely duties; the mission had made certain that the Indian girls who had been left there learned how to make themselves useful.  She was neat and tidy; meals were prepared and served precisely when he said he would be home to eat.  He found that the missing buttons on his shirts had all been sewn back on.  The house was unfailingly clean.  Laundry was done on Mondays.  She learned his preferences for meals and the next time she cooked, the salt and pepper were just right, the chicken was moist, the biscuits fluffy.  What he disliked never showed up again on the dinner table. 

One night after a fulfilling dinner, cudled up together he held her in his arms, spent from the day’s work.  “Catherine .  .  .  “

She looked up at him.  “I did something wrong?”

“You never do something wrong.  But I want to know more about you.  You work all day, I work all day, and at night we do this, and we sleep.  Tell me about yourself.”

She curled up against him.  “There’s nothing to tell.  I want to be a good wife.  I want to please you.”

“You do please me-,” he said. “ Let’s talk now.’
“Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing at all.” He felt momentary irritation.  He just wanted to have a conversation with his wife.  She was pretty and desirable, but she was more than that.  “You’re perfect.  But I don’t know much.”
“I told you.  My father was---“

“You told me that your father was a buffalo hunter and your mother a Comanche.  What about Catherine? Was that the name you were given when you were born? What was your Indian name?”

She hid her face against his chest.  “My name is Catherine.”

“I know that.  But I want to know more about you.  What’s your born name? Catherine, why won’t you talk to me?”

“If I’ve done something wrong, please tell me.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong! What’s all this about? Has someone said something?”

She shook her head. 

“Then why won’t you talk to me?”

“I want to please you.”

“Talking to me will please me.  Catherine, I got married because I want a wife.  I don’t want a servant or a pleasure girl, I want a wife.”

She reacted as if he had slapped her, recoiling from his words.  “I want to be your wife,” she said.  She didn’t cry, but he had the feeling she was ready to give way to tears. 

“You are my wife.  Just—Catherine .  .  .  look, I’ll go first.  I was born in Virginia, my mother was older when I was born and my pa died when I was eight years old.  Ma died when I was 16.  We didn’t have much, and I didn’t have much education.  I joined up to fight for the Union; my folks never owned slaves.  After the war, I came West like a lot of other soldiers.  I worked and saved, bought this place.  But I was alone.  I wanted a wife.  Then I wrote to the mission, and when I saw you that day, I just couldn’t believe that a woman so pretty and—elegant looking, a woman like you, would be willing to live on a ranch with a big, dumb cowboy like me.”
“You’re not dumb,” she disagreed.  
“But I am big,” he joked.  “You can’t deny that.” He was well over six feet, and years of ranching had layered his chest, arms, and legs with sinews.  His hair was too thick to be tamed and by the time evening came, his beard was already darkening his skin.  “I hope our children look like you.”

“I hope they look like you.”

“That would be one homely daughter.”

“Catherine---just talk to me.”

She didn’t say another word. He took her in his arms and fell into deep sleep. Tomorrow would be another day.  Conversation was not necessary now.

Mrs.  Jacobs hailed him as he and the men were heading home.  “I need you, Gideon, come in here.  You too,” she said to the men.

“Has something happened to Lucy?” Gideon asked warily, wondering if the damned cow had managed to make its way into the house.

“No, no, not Lucy.  I have something for you to take home.”

Gideon and the men, mystified, followed Mrs.  Jacobs into her house.  “I want you to take the piano,” she said, pointing to the instrument in her parlor. 

“The piano? Mrs.  Jacobs, I’m mighty grateful, but I don’t know what I’d do with a piano.”

“Not for you! For Catherine.  She plays beautifully and with these old hands, I can’t make the keys sound right anymore.” Mrs.  Jacobs held up her hands, curved with arthritis.  “Better for the piano to be where it can be played.  I can come over and listen.”

Gideon frowned.  Catherine played the piano? “Mrs.  Jacobs .  .  .  I don’t know .  .  .”

“It will take all of you to lift it, I know, but think of how much you will enjoy the tunes.  When you have come up with a way to move it, let me know.  It’s for Catherine.”

They were nearly back home when Rip said, “Be nice to hear tunes.”

“Yes.”

The evening meal was, as always, delicious.  Gideon praised her work as he always did, but his mind was not on his food and Catherine immediately noticed. 

“No, Catherine,” he said when she asked if he disliked the food.  “But I’m puzzled, that’s all.  Mrs.  Jacobs stopped me and the boys.  She wants to give you her piano.”

Catherine’s face revealed surprised.  “She does? Why?”

“She says you play.  Beautifully.  She says you play beautifully.  I didn’t know you played at all.”

“We all learned to play at the mission.  I’ll do the dishes now.”

“The dishes can wait.  Catherine, please sit down.”

“I need to do the dishes first.  I don’t like to leave the house untidy.”

“There’s not a cleaner house in Texas.  Please sit down.”

Reluctantly, she did as he directed, her alert eyes never leaving his face as if she needed to be able to predict what he would do or say.  Her posture was tense.  It was a marvel that a woman who could, in the throes of physical passion, show such adroit mobility was sitting here in her chair as if she were about to turn to stone.

“I didn’t know you played the piano.  I don’t know anything about you except that you make meals I can’t wait to eat, and you take care of me in the bedroom like you think I’ll kick you out of the house if you aren’t attending to every wish I have, even wishes I didn’t know I had until you do something that makes me---Catherine, don’t look like that.  I want to know you.”

“You know me.  I’m an Indian.”

“And I’m a Virginian who moved to Texas after the War Between the States ended.  That doesn’t tell us anything.  Today I find out from the neighbor lady that you play the piano.  What else do you do?”

“I need to—“

“You need to sit there and tell me about yourself.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s a lot to tell.   You read and write, you play the piano.  What else do you do?”

“I’m your wife.”

Gideon slammed his fist on the table.  Catherine sat perfectly still; only her eyes, watchful, betrayed that she was unsure of herself. 

“I’m sorry, Catherine.  I’d never hit you.  But can’t you tell me about yourself? What’s your Indian name?”

“Catherine.  The sisters named me Catherine.”

Gideon drew in his breath.  “Catherine, we’re not going to bed until you tell me who my wife is.”

She was stubborn.  They sat there for an hour in silence.  Gideon was tired; he wanted to wash and go to bed.  But that wouldn’t solve anything.   And if he went to bed .  .  . 

“What’s your Indian name?” he repeated, getting up to light the lamps.  He returned to his chair.

She was weeping silently.  Tears glistened as they trailed down her slender cheeks. 
“Catherine, why are you crying?”

“I want to be your wife.”

“You are my wife.  Didn’t we stand before Rev.  Hale? Didn’t I bring you to this house and to my bed? Aren’t we married?”

“Then why do you keep asking me about my Indian life? This is my life!”

“Of course it is, sweetheart,” he said, moved by her tears.  “But you weren’t born on our wedding day.  Come on, tell me your Indian name.  If you don’t tell me,” he warned, “I’m sleeping in the barn tonight.”

Her eyes widened.  “No!”

“All right, then,” he said, although he had no intention of following through on that threat.  “What’s your Indian name?”

She said something in another language. 
“What does it mean?”

“Tall Tree.”

“Tall Tree,” he repeated, testing the sound of it.  “I like it.  You’re tall and straight and proud, like a beautiful tree.  Tall Tree.”
“My name is Catherine.”

“Katy Tall Tree,” he teased.  “I think I’m going to pick up Katy Tall Tree and throw her over my shoulder and tickle her all the way to the bedroom.”

He rose from the chair and made a move toward her.  She reared back, but he pounced and grabbed her, raising her over his shoulder and striding to the bedroom as he tickled her with his fingers.  She laughed and tried to free herself, until they were in the bedroom.

“Oh, no, Katy Tall Tree,” he said.  “We’re not getting in that bed until you answer some questions.”

She was poised between uncertainty and anticipation, her dark, kindled eyes fastened to him like locked magnets.

“How old are you, Katy Tall Tree?”

“Nineteen.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“November 15.”

And so it continued, until al lof his questions were answered. They were laughing, and content.  As he held her in his arms that night, listening to her soft breathing, Gideon felt that he’d been given a glimpse into a woman he was going to fall in love with.  Meals and mating were better than he’d expected them to be, but he’d learned something about himself and about marriage: loving was even better.

“Katy, we’re going into town for supplies, and if you don’t get into that wagon, I’ll pick you up and put you in it.”

“You can go get supplies, Gideon, I’ll write a list of everything we need.  Please, I don’t want to go.”

“You have to live here, Katy.  I’ll be away on the cattle drive; what will you do then?”
“You can get everything I’ll need before you leave.”

He shook his head.  It was hard to be firm when he understood why she was reluctant to go into town; she’d been badly treated on her arrival and he didn’t think anything was likely to change.  But he was damned if he’d hide on his ranch and let the town get away with treating his wife that way.  They were going into town together and if they shunned her, they’d have to shun him too.  If someone threw dirt at her, or insulted her, he’d break someone’s nose.  It was that simple. 

When he’d told Rip the night before that he was heading into town, Rip had said that he had a few things he’d like to pick up too, if Boss didn’t mind.  Gideon didn’t mind, but he didn’t want to appear as if he needed a posse with him.  He’d told Rip that he’d pick up whatever he needed.  Rip understood, and slapped his back awkwardly to express his loyalty. 

Catherine refused.  Flat out refused.  That was unusual; her attitude was acquiescent.  “I can’t go back there, Gideon.  If you see me the way they do, you’ll see me as an Indian.”

“I know you in ways they don’t,” he said meaningfully.  “And that’s how I see my wife.  I’m married to the prettiest woman in Texas; the best cook, the best sewing woman, the best lover, the best piano player.  Now I’m taking my wife to town and we’re buying supplies, and maybe, just because she’s got the prettiest hair of any woman in Texas, maybe we’ll buy the prettiest wife a new hat.  You haven’t asked for anything since you married me.  That’s not wifely.” He was teasing, but his tone didn’t drive away the fear in her eyes.  “A good wife wants to look pretty, even if she’s married to a big, dumb cowboy.  I’m tired of that bonnet of yours; I want you in a new one.  Now, you get into that wagon or I mean it, I’ll put you in and make you ride with me.”

She didn’t move.  “Come on, Katy Tall Tree,” he coaxed.  “Make me happy.”

She didn’t say a word the entire ride, but she got into the wagon on her own, lured by the request to please him.  Gideon’s jawline was set in determination.  They were coming home with a new hat for his wife or they weren’t coming home.

He lifted her from the wagon, took her by the arm as he had that first day, and walked toward the store, tipping his hat to the women he passed, even when they walked by him, stone-faced.  Katy looked prettier than any of those women, in her calico skirt and white blouse, with bright red ribbons in her black hair.  He was proud to have her at his side and he told her so, just before they turned into Al Jessop’s General Store. 

There were others in the store.  One woman was examining fabric; another was giving Al’s daughter a list of supplies that she needed.  A man sitting by the counter noticed their arrival, stared, and then, when Gideon stared back, shrugged. 

“Howdy, Al,” Gideon greeted the storekeeper when he came out to the front.  “We’ve got a long list of things we need.”

“Gideon, I told you, this town don’t need half-breeds—“

He didn’t finish the sentence because Gideon’s big hand had reached out and grabbed him by his shirtfront.  “This town needs men and women, Al.  My wife never went on the warpath, she never shot anyone with an arrow.  She never did anyone any harm.  Now she’s with me and she’s staying with me.  We’re coming into town for supplies when we need them.  You know why?”

Jessop’s eyes exposed fear.  Gideon was probably the strongest man in town and Jessop was no fighting man.  “You know why?” Gideon repeated, his voice just under a roar.

Jessop shook his head as much as he could, constrained by Gideon’s grip. 

“Because I went to war to fight for this nation, that’s why.  I took a bullet in the arm for the right to live in this country and take a wife of my own choosing.  This is my wife.  Katy, meet Al Jessop.  He’s the storekeeper here.  You’ll be seeing a lot of him; he’s a good man, a fair man, and I do a lot of business in this store.  Katy?”

She came forward.  “Pleased to meet you, Mr.  Jessop.”

“Al? I can’t rightly hear you, Al, speak up.”
Al Jessop wasn’t exactly choking, but he wasn’t swallowing easily either.  “Pleased,” he managed to say. 

Gideon released Jessop.  “That’s better.  Katy, can you give Al that list you wrote up?  We’re going to head on over to Madame du Pres and see about a new dress.”

He offered Catherine his arm.  With wonderment in her eyes, she accepted it.  He saw her chin lift as if she were proud to be at his side. 

Madame du Pres was pragmatic and French, and a slender young woman was easy to fit.  When they left her shop, Gideon was looking forward to seeing his wife in three new dresses that Madame promised would be ready within a week. 

They were leaving the store when their path was blocked.  The sheriff stood there, his craggy face as rough-hewn as the star on his chest was shiny and smooth.

“Ma’am,” he greeted Catherine, his finger at his hat in the Western gesture of respect.  “Gid, good to see you.  I heard about what happened when you rode in, Mrs.  Mathieson.  I heard what happened in Jessop’s store.  Sounds like you took care of things just fine, Gid.  Mrs.  Mathieson, I have a request.”

“She’s coming into town every time she needs to, Gunter.”

“I hear that.  But I have a request.  I belong to the Methodist Church, ma’am.  We’re sorely in need of a piano player in our church.  I heard tell that you play right well.”

“She plays beautifully,” Gideon said. 

“I—I play, but I—“

“None of us play, and our piano player got married and moved to San Antonio.  Half of us can’t sing and the other half are tired of listening to us ruin hymns.  Do you think you’d be able to help?”
“Does Parson know you’re here asking?” Gideon asked.

“It was his idea.  The Parson and Mrs.  Jacobs are friends.  She told him about Mrs.  Mathieson’s tunes, and he told me that if you didn’t come to town soon, he’d be riding out to ask.”  The sheriff’s eyes twinkled.  “Think you can be a Methodist, Gid?”

“I can be anything if my wife is welcome.”

“Fair enough.” He touched his hat brim.  “Pleasure, ma’am.  See you Sunday.”

“Gideon,” Catherine began to object as soon as they were distant from the sheriff

“Katy.”

“I’m not good enough to play for people.”

“Mrs.  Jacobs must think you are,” he replied, continuing to walk.

“Gideon, what if---“

“What if you had gone back to the mission? What if you didn’t decide to be the wife of a big, dumb cowboy? What if is for people who don’t have guts.”

“But I’m an Indian, and this town doesn’t like Indians”

“I love you, Katy Tall Tree, and I don’t give a damn what this town thinks.  I do give a damn about how this town treats my wife.  Let’s get back to the store and see if Al has finished our order”

Al Jessop had finished the order.  He added up the total and Gideon paid.  “Thank you, Al.  I’m glad we got all that straightened out.  It is straightened out, isn’t it?”

Al Jessop stayed well back, far from the counter and out of reach, but he confirmed that it was straightened out

“Glad to hear it,” Gideon said jovially.  “Good day to you”

“Good day.”

Back in the wagon, his wife close to his side, Gideon thought about what he’d done.  It wasn’t his way to use force, but the circumstances had called for it.  People, he reflected, were a lot like Lucy, Mrs.  Jacobs’ cow.  They’d try to get away with something until a man showed them that he was stronger, and that he wasn’t afraid to do what had to be done.  Maybe it wasn’t such a strange thing to have a pet cow after all.  Mrs.  Jacobs was a pretty smart woman.

**THE END**