Second Chance Brides (16 page)

Leah glanced from Luke to her and back. A playful smirk danced on her lips as if she’d understood Rachel’s thoughts. “I suppose I should head on over to Polly’s and start hauling the refreshments over to the social,” Leah said.

“I’m available if you need help.” Luke grabbed a coffee cup off Rachel’s shelf and poured some coffee into it.

“That’s probably not too warm, sweetheart. I let the stove burn down after fixing supper.” Rachel touched the side of the pot. Lukewarm at its best.

“I’m obliged for the offer to help, but Shannon already said she would assist me, and Polly offered also. We’ll be back before dark.” Leah waved and turned down the hallway.

Luke set his cup down and growled. “Come here, wife. I’m hankerin’ for some spoonin’.”

Rachel glanced to the spot where Leah had been, then walked over and peeked down the hallway. She and Shannon were walking out the front door together, and Jacqueline was outside somewhere, which meant she and Luke were alone. She slowly turned back to face her husband. “If you want me”—she wiggled her brows—“come and get me.”

Luke’s brown eyes sparked, and a slow grin pulled at his lips. “You don’t have to ask twice.”

He pushed away from the cabinet, moving with unhurried but deliberate steps. When he got within three feet of her, Rachel squealed and spun down the hall. She darted into the dining room.

“Hey, darlin’, you’re not getting away.” Luke chased after her, deep chuckles rattling in his chest.

Rachel gasped for a breath between laughs, and managed to keep the dining table between her and her husband. “You’re getting slow in your old age. There was a time I’d have never gotten away.”

“You’re
not
getting away. Ever.” His eyes gleamed with love and possession.

Suddenly, all teasing fled, and Rachel wanted nothing more than to be in his arms. She sauntered toward the end of the table, batting her eyelashes like she’d seen a saloon girl once do.

Luke held his position at the middle of the table as if he wasn’t too sure that she wouldn’t cut back the other way. But as she rounded his side of the table, a slow burn glimmered in his gaze, and he stepped forward. He lifted his hand and trailed it down her cheek; then he cupped her nape, tugging her up against him.

“You’re so beautiful. You’ve no idea how many times I dreamed of holding you when I was gone.” He crushed her against his chest. It was muscled. Solid. But his kiss was soft. Gentle.

Rachel stood on her tiptoes, kissing the only man she’d ever loved. Luke deepened the kiss, and their breath mingled together. Rachel felt lifted out of this world into a realm only a husband and wife madly in love could visit. Oh, if only they could go on like this forever.

The back door banged, and they jerked apart. Rachel grabbed the back of a chair for balance, and her chest heaved, and her pulse soared. Her lips felt puffy. Damp.

“Ma?”

Luke stepped back and acted as if he were straightening the chairs. Jacqueline’s gaze swept back and forth between them. Her mouth swerved up to one side, and she crossed her arms. “Guess you two were kissing again. Is that all married folks do?”

Luke grinned wickedly, and his gaze sought Rachel’s. “No, half bit, we do other things besides that.”

Jacqueline scowled. “What kind of things?”

Rachel’s heart stampeded. Surely Luke wouldn’t mention things her daughter was too young to hear about.

Luke ambled toward Rachel, and her breathing picked up speed again. Just having the man near set her senses racing like a heard of mustangs. He put his arm around her shoulders.

“Oh, sometimes we hug, like this.” He pulled her against his side.

Jacqueline’s mouth curved up in disgust. “That’s nothing. You hug me, too.”

“Other times…” Luke gazed down at Rachel with an ornery glint to his eyes.

No, please don’t tell her
.

“Sometimes…we tickle!”

Luke’s fingers dug into Rachel’s side, and she jumped. “Don’t! Stop!” Rachel giggled and tried to get free, but his other arm held her captive.

“Don’t stop? Isn’t that what your ma said, half bit?” Luke renewed his efforts.

Tears blurred Rachel’s eyes. She wiggled and squirmed but couldn’t get free. He held her tight, but not so much that it hurt. “Luke, please.”

“Ah, now she’s begging for more.”

Jacqueline giggled and raced around the table. “I’ll save you, Ma.” She grabbed Luke’s arm and tugged.

Luke released his hold as if the girl had overpowered him, but just that fast, he scooped her onto his shoulder. “Where do you want this sack of potatoes, Rach?”

Jacqueline screeched with delight. Rachel’s heart warmed seeing her daughter and husband at play. This was what she’d longed for in a marriage.

“Help me, Ma.”

Luke jogged around the table with Jacqueline hanging over his shoulder. Rachel smiled, knowing her interference was the last thing her daughter wanted just now.

C
HAPTER
11

B
utch Laird stood on the outskirts of the crowd, leaning against a tall oak, watching the dancing. Cowboys and ladies in pretty dresses sashayed around the circle, doing a complicated square dance he’d seen before. How did they remember what steps to do next?

His gaze drifted over to the table of food again. Several kinds of cookies sat in stacks next to a half-dozen pies. The two boardinghouse brides hustled about, setting out plates and forks. His mouth watered, and his stomach growled when the blond picked up a knife and began slicing one of the pies. Was the food just for the dancers? When was the last time he had pie?

He and his pa rarely ate anything except for pork, eggs, beans, and potatoes. Bacon, ham steaks, pork chops, ham, and beans. That was his lot in life as the son of a hog farmer. Some folks would envy him, but he was sick of pork—and sick of his own cooking.

Butch winced. The last time he’d had pie was when he’d stolen one off a windowsill. He closed his eyes at the memory of how good it had tasted. But he’d eaten the whole thing, and then gotten sick. Besides an upset belly, he’d been riddled with guilt. He’d found some work and earned a dollar, then returned the woman’s clean pie plate to her windowsill with the dollar on it. He hadn’t eaten pie since then.

He moseyed toward the food. At close to six foot tall, he had the look of a man—at least he would once he lost his pudge and muscled up more. People often thought he was older than just thirteen. But no matter how much he worked, he couldn’t seem to lose his big belly. He was tired of the other kids making fun of him for being fat—for calling him Butch Lard instead of Laird. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped dinner. He just couldn’t stand slicing another steak off the ham roast that sat on a plate in the kitchen. If he ever got away from Lookout, he’d never eat pork again.

A group of eight couples danced in and out to the lively music, and the women swirled around, their colorful skirts flying. Phil Muckley deftly swung his bow across his fiddle strings, while Nathan Spooner sawed his harmonica back and forth across his mouth. A man Butch didn’t recognize played guitar and tapped his foot to the tune.

Butch’s gaze swung back to the dancing ladies. He liked to watch them. Whenever they whipped past him, he got a whiff of their flowery scents. What would things have been like if his mother hadn’t died when he was young? Would his pa have been different? Kinder? Not a drunk?

He shook his head to rid it of such glum thoughts. Movement on the other side of the dancers caught his attention. Jack—Jacqueline Hamilton—stood in the shadows of the church building, watching the dancing couples. She was probably too young to join in, as he was, but that didn’t keep her from watching.

He scowled, thinking of how her lies had caused him to spend two days in jail for something he didn’t do. And yet, he couldn’t stay angry with her, even though his pa had beat him for not being home to care for the animals and to cook the meals. Even though he still hurt in places where his pa had taken a broken hay fork handle to him. He knew she had also endured a similar fate when her pa was alive, and for some odd reason, he wanted to protect her—if only she could tolerate him.

Jacqueline strolled over to the food table and started chatting with the two women. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but her lively facial expressions held him captive. He’d always wanted to be her friend. She reminded him of his little sister, Zoe, who’d had red hair and had been as feisty as a piglet. But Zoe had died before her first birthday, just before his ma gave in to the fever. He’d buried them together while his pa was away on a hunting trip. His pa returned without any meat and took out his grief and anger on him. But even a stiff beating didn’t drive away the guilt. Somehow, he should have helped his ma and sister better.

One of the boardinghouse brides put a slice of pie on a plate and handed it to Jack, along with a fork. Butch shook his head. Why did such a cute girl want to wear overalls, go fishing with the boys, and be called by a boy’s name?

He moved closer to the table, but lost his courage as he reached the back of the church. For some reason, Jack had it in for him. Yeah, sometimes he lost his temper when the kids ranted at him and blamed him for things he hadn’t done, but he tried to get along. It just seemed that nobody wanted to get along with him.

He sniffed his shirt, hoping it didn’t smell. The kids constantly berated him for carrying the hog stench, but he could never catch the odor on his own clothes. He hadn’t taken a chance tonight, though. He’d scrubbed clean his nicest shirt and overalls, even though both were faded and frayed. The dance was for folks of marrying age—he knew that—but he had just hoped to be able to get a slice of the pies he’d heard they’d be serving. His mouth watered, and he forced his feet forward.

The bride whose hair was nearly the same color as Jack’s saw him coming and smiled.

“Sure now, would you be caring for a slice of pie?” She smiled at him and held up the pie knife.

He sucked in a breath and nodded, unable to believe his good fortune. Jack eyed him suspiciously as she continued to finish her pie.

“Would you care for apple or peach?”

What a choice. “Um…apple, I guess.” He was pretty sure he remembered his ma baking apple pies, but it had been so long that his memory had dulled.

The lady handed him a fork and a plate with a fat slice of pie. The dancers noticed the food being served and drifted toward the table while the music faded. Even the musicians were setting aside their instruments and heading for the feeding trough, as if they thought they’d miss out. Butch got out of the way and reverently carried his pie to where Jack stood eating hers.

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Her spiteful tone grated on him. Why did she dislike him so much? “Same thing as you, I reckon.”

“And what’s that?”

“Eating pie.”

She shook her head, tossing her long braid over her shoulder. “I can eat pie every day. I came to watch the shenanigans.”

Her comment gored him to the core, but he doubted she meant to hurt him. Of course she ate pie every day; she had a ma to fix it and guests who probably expected dessert served with their meals. Even though he wanted to savor each bite, he shoved the pie into his mouth, and in seconds, it was gone. He licked his fork and then his plate, catching every little taste that was left.

“Eww…don’t you got no manners?”

He halted mid-lick and glanced out the corner of his eye. His pa always licked his plate—said that was how he helped with the washing. Didn’t other folks do the same?

Jack eyed him like he was a crude no-good. He lowered the plate and set it on the empty table behind the brides that held a bowl of soapy water. He shoved his hands into his pockets, not quite ready to leave. If there was any pie left after all the dancers got their share, maybe he could have another slice.

He moseyed back over by Jack. She took her last bite and frowned at him. She held up her nose and sniffed, then looked down at his boots. Butch ducked his head and gazed down. Rats, he’d forgotten to clean them, and he’d fed the hogs just before leaving. He sniffed, but didn’t smell anything bad.

Jack walked around him and took her empty plate to the wash table. She cleaned her plate in the soapy water then dipped the plate into another bucket of fresh water, and dried it off. Then she did the same with his plate and their forks. Butch stood mesmerized by the action. Why would she wash his plate? Should he have done that?

He’d thought the brides would tend to the dirty dishes. He wandered around the churchyard, waiting for the folks to finish eating and start dancing again. Soon enough, the music filled the night air again, and the ladies were quickly claimed while the men without partners stood around the dancers, awaiting the next song.

Jack washed more of the dirty dishes, with the brides helping once all the serving was done. Butch kept his eye on the half pie that was leftover. He couldn’t tell if it was peach or apple, but that hardly mattered. He just had to get another slice. Maybe if he offered to help…