Smoke River Bride (18 page)

T
uesday dawned with a sky so blue it reminded Leah of her mother’s treasured lapis lazuli necklace, a wedding gift from Father. By breakfast time, the heat in the small house felt as if a prairie fire smoldered under the plank floor.

Teddy poked listlessly at his oatmeal and Thad ate nothing at all, just sat staring out the window, nursing his mug of coffee. Leah tried to eat, but her stomach roiled with such jitters she gave it up after a single spoonful.

Today the townspeople would decide about Uncle Charlie’s bakery.

A muscle in Thad’s jaw was jumping rhythmically and she wrenched her gaze away. He
was obviously troubled. For days now he had slept in the barn.

Suddenly he jerked to his feet and, without a word, strode out the front door. Leah stared after him with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Why could he not tell her what was bothering him?

Hurriedly, she washed the cups and bowls and put them on the shelf, but this morning instead of stacking the china neatly as she usually did, she shoved the pieces in any which way. Her life, she reflected, felt as disordered as her dishes.

What was happening to their marriage?

She shook the thought away, but the question stuck in her brain like a blob of pitch. She stood watching Thad out the window, striding across the pasture with his hands jammed in his pockets.

Then, with a resolute shake of her head, she brushed aside her fear, gathered up her hat and headed for the barn to saddle the mare. It was Tuesday.

Voting day.

Despite the stifling heat, Smoke River’s main street was bustling with activity. Leah tied up her mare at the hitching rail and joined
the crowd of townspeople jostling each other outside the mercantile door. Thad would ride in later to vote; he and Teddy had stayed at the ranch to dribble what water they could on the sun-seared wheat stalks. But that would not be much, she thought with a stab of unease. Because of the drought, their well was going dry.

Everything was dry! Thad’s interest in her was shriveling up like the mudflat in the pasture where the pond used to be. Things could not get any worse.

But she knew they could. What if Uncle Charlie lost his bakery business? Where would he go? What if Thad never returned to her bed? What if the feeling of oneness they had once begun to share had died?

A sharp-edged pain lanced her chest and she caught her breath. What would she do then?

She took her place at the end of the long line of townspeople waiting to cast their ballots. Instantly the loud conversation around her dwindled to an awkward silence. Leah winced. They must have been talking about Uncle Charlie.

Or her.

The line edged forward a step. Behind her
she heard Darla Weatherby’s high, thin voice. “I think it’s purely shameful, having a Chinaman living in Smoke River. Right out in plain sight, too. Mama and I are voting no.”

“Me, too,” said another voice—Lucy Nichols, Leah gathered from the tone. “My mama’s having palpitations whenever the word
Chinese
comes up.”

A claw dug into Leah’s spine. She kept her face averted.

At that moment a scowling man stomped out of the mercantile and barreled into her.

“S’cuse me, Miz MacAllister.” He jerked his head toward the mercantile as he brushed past. “Got a bad smell in there. That damned marshal’s pokin’ his nose into everything.”

Before she could ask, shouts erupted from the store. Men’s voices. She stepped out of line to see, but a large figure blocked her view. Ike Bruhn! Thank goodness Thad was not here; the last time Thad and Ike had tangled she had used up the last of the liniment.

When she finally reached the mercantile entrance the first thing that caught her eye was the lean figure of Colonel Wash Halliday, bent over a four-pound tin of Arbuckles’ coffee. A slot had been cut in the top to serve as a ballot box.

A grim-faced Carl Ness stood stiff as a broom at one end of the counter. Opposite Carl, Marshal Johnson, Ellie’s husband, lounged casually against a display of hoes and axes and snowshoes.
Showshoes?

Leah studied the odd-shaped wooden objects. They were a reminder that eventually this awful dry, tense summer would be over, followed by fall—harvest season—with crisp air and scarlet maple leaves and, oh, please, God, some rain! And then would come winter, with snow. It did not seem possible these dreadful months would finally be over.

The line swayed forward another arm’s length and a tantalizing spicy aroma wafted on the air. Leah peered past the mercantile display shelves to an upturned bushel basket next to the ballot box; on top rested a familiar flower-patterned platter heaped with cookies. Big ones. With raisins.

Her heart flip-flopped. Uncle Charlie might be diminutive and shy and soft-spoken, but he was clever.

People filed by, snagged a cookie and dropped their folded paper ballots into the Arbuckles’ tin. Leah clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. The pile of cookies was diminishing so fast there would
be only crumbs left by the time Thad rode into town.

Ellie joined her in line. “I just came from the schoolhouse. Plans are shaping up for the spelling bee.”

Four people ahead of them, Leah spotted a woman she had not noticed before. The sadness and resignation in her face tugged at her.

“Ellie, who is that?”

“Elvira Sorensen. She rarely comes into town.”

“She looks so unhappy. Do you know why?”

“Not exactly. Her husband grows bush beans, and they have lived on a farm outside Smoke River for years, but there are no Sorensen children at school. I have often wondered why.”

The woman kept her head down, but when she looked up to drop in her paper ballot, Leah flinched. Elvira Sorensen appeared dried out, her face lifeless.

Was she mistreated? Or did she have a husband who—Leah caught her lower lip between her teeth—who no longer cared for her?

Leah could not bear to think about it. She shook off the thought, then stepped forward,
picked up the offered square of paper and a pencil, and marked her ballot with a big
yes
.

When she turned to leave, she collided with Mrs. Sorensen in the doorway. For a brief instant the woman looked into Leah’s eyes. Her face was a mask of desolation.

Leah swallowed over a lump the size of a lemon. Would she end up like Mrs. Sorensen? She tried to scrub the thought from her mind and walked to the hitching rail to mount Lady.

Just as she reined away and headed toward the edge of town, she glimpsed Thad, looking handsome in the new shirt of white linen she had finished yesterday. His battered gray Stetson was tipped down so his face was hidden, but from the set of his shoulders she knew he was not smiling.

His big black gelding moved slowly up the street toward her, its pace unhurried. She stepped her mare forward to meet him.

“Thad?”

He glanced up. “Looks like everybody in town came to vote. How’s Uncle Charlie doing?”

Leah gave a short laugh. “Uncle Charlie is unsinkable. He is busy supplying cookies to the townspeople. You had best hurry before they are all eaten.”

“In a minute.” Thad pushed his hat brim back with his thumb, and his gaze settled on her face. “First, there’s something I want to tell you.”

A rock dropped into her belly. She could see his eyes now; they were a stormy grayblue, and the bleak expression in them made her insides go cold.

“What is it? Tell me.”

He rubbed his jaw. “The wheat’s pretty far gone. The well went dry before we could dump even one bucket of water on the crop, and there’s not a goddam thing I can—” His voice choked off.

She leaned forward to touch his arm. “Oh, Thad, I am so sorry.”

“I figure I can wait two more days for rain, then I’ll have to plow it under.” He studied his saddle horn.

Her heart twisted. What could she do to help him?

She gripped her reins so tight the mare jerked. “I thought I would make potato salad for supper tonight, with some cold sliced beef. When you come home, we could eat out on the porch, where it is cool.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. But his eyes had that faraway
look she was learning to fear. In silence he moved the gelding on past her, and her chest tightened into an ache.

She blinked hard to keep back the tears, dug her heels into the mare’s flanks and galloped down the road until she could scarcely breathe for the dust.

Potato salad was a small thing, but it was all she could think of to offer.

Long after dark Thad started up the porch steps with tired legs and a mind fuzzy with exhaustion. Leah sat on a chair in the shadows, but she didn’t say a word, just looked at him. In the pale moonlight her face appeared drawn. Only then did he remember she had expected him for supper.

With a sigh he climbed the last step and shoved his hat back. “I’m sorry, Leah.”

He could say he had been jawing with Henry Pritchard and Wash Halliday about the drought. Or that he’d stayed at the mercantile to help tally the ballots. Or…

No, he couldn’t. He could never lie to Leah.

“I plain forgot all about your potato salad.”

She stood up slowly. “I saved your supper. I will bring it out here.”

“I can get it. In the pantry, is it? And I’ll bring you some…tea?”

“Coffee,” she murmured. She sank back onto the chair. “Good and strong.”

The screen door swished shut behind him. Sometimes he hated that calmness she had. It’d be a hell of a lot easier if she laid into him, like most wives would.

He found the plate of potato salad and sliced beef waiting for him under a damp tea towel in the coolest part of the pantry. On his way out, he juggled two mugs of coffee from the blue speckleware pot on the stove and pushed open the screen door with his knee. Lord, the night smelled good—earth and the pungent scent of pine trees.

“Teddy has finished his supper,” she said. Thad handed over her coffee and settled himself uneasily on the straight-back dining chair beside her.

“Where is he now?”

A ghost of a smile flitted across her mouth. “Up in his loft, reading the last chapter of
Ivanhoe.”

Thad raised his brows. “I’ll be damned.”

“Remember, I stopped reading it aloud just before the joust between Ivanhoe and Front de Boeuf. Teddy wants to see how it ends.”

Thad heaved a sigh and forked potato salad into his mouth. “You’re a good teacher, Leah. You know how to prick a boy’s interest. To be honest, I don’t remember where you left off reading.”

“You missed a great many chapters, Thad.”

“Yeah, guess I have.” He knew she was referring to more than
Ivanhoe
, but right now he didn’t feel up to tackling the real issue.

“After I left town I couldn’t stop thinking about that damn wheat. Just couldn’t get it out of my mind.”

Leah nodded and sipped her coffee. “You have missed many things because of it.”

“Yeah, I have to admit that.” From the unsmiling line of his wife’s lips, he guessed he’d missed a lot more than he realized.

Something had changed. She was different, somehow. Almost…what? Not angry, just…distant.

Well, sure she is, you damn fool. You haven’t been close to her in weeks
. But he’d thought about her. There were nights in the barn when he’d wanted her so much he’d counted the hours until daylight. But something clawing at him in the dark had held him back.

He still dreamed of Leah. Even now, just
the scent of her hair floating on the balmy air made him close his eyes with longing.

Leah leaned forward to set her coffee mug down on the porch. “What about your wheat, Thad?”

Her voice, low and controlled, sent a shiver of premonition through him. He hunched over his still-warm coffee.

“Have you ever thought about what that field really represents to you?”

“Well, sure. I knew it was a gamble from the beginning. I’m known hereabouts as a successful rancher, so growing wheat was a challenge. A matter of pride, too, I guess.”

“I think it is more than that,” she said quietly. “I think something is twisted around in your mind, that your wheat field represents some kind of control you want over your future.”

He could think of nothing to say. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Nah. Growing wheat is an experiment. This land is prime wheat country.”

“That may be true,” she replied. “But there is still more to it.”

His shirt collar began to chafe his neck. “What more is there?”

She waited a long minute before answering.
“I think it is all mixed up with losing your wife. I think you are afraid it might happen again.”

For a moment he couldn’t draw breath. “You’re way off track, Leah. Besides, what’s that got to do with my wheat? I’m just a man trying to do his best for his family.”

“You don’t want to think about it, I know. Or about me. So you think about your wheat field.”

“You’re wrong, dammit. You’re seeing some significance that isn’t there.”

She watched his face. “Am I wrong? You don’t eat breakfast or supper with Teddy and me. You sleep in the barn. You avoid being close to me.”

“I—” Thad snapped his jaw shut. Hell, a worried woman could imagine all sorts of things. Some of her words pricked him, but dammit, his wheat field had nothing to do with her. Or Hattie. Or anything else.

He leaned forward and lifted both her hands in his. “Leah, with no rain since last December, any rancher would be worried.”

“I know,” she murmured. “I understand that.”

But she didn’t. He could tell by the odd, hopeless look in her gray-green eyes. She
didn’t understand, not really. He let out a heavy gust of air. But he’d be damned if he knew what to do about it.

Maybe he should have owned up to her right off, told her how scared he was, not just about the wheat but about losing someone he loved again. Maybe now it was too late.

He released her trembling hands and sank his head onto his palms. The joke was on him. He’d fallen in love with his delicate-looking, industrious, sensible and thoroughly female wife. He loved her, and wild horses couldn’t make him stop.

Yeah, he could force himself to stay out of Leah’s bed, but now, after weeks of protecting his heart by keeping his distance, he realized he was losing what he most wanted to hold on to.