The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (24 page)

Obviously, he wasn't much good at explaining the way things ought to be between them, so he ruled out having any more discussions about the matter. Force was out of the question, of course, no matter how long she stalled. The only thing left was to do what he did with the horses; gain her trust and employ the art of gentle persuasion. That meant learning to see the problem from her point of view, anticipating her needs and fears, and, most of all, spotting her desires and acting upon them.

Until he could get all that figured out, Hawke knew he couldn't go back to the house. Not with the way his blood boiled every time he saw Lacey, touched her, or caught the irresistible aroma of her hair. He didn't dare.

* * *

Lacey tucked her lucky spurs under her pillow that night, afraid to let them out of her sight. If she ever needed the luck and courage the little silver shamrocks provided, she figured she needed it now more than ever. Hawke was beyond angry with her, she knew that much just by looking at him. What she didn't know was to what extremes his anger might take him. She hadn't fared any better with Crowfoot when she tried to talk him into removing the sack from his foot. He'd grown sullen and moody, then darted off into the thick pine forest behind the ranch. By day's end, she felt alone, unwanted, and out of place.

The following morning things didn't start out much better. Lacey whiled away the hours waiting for Hawke to come back to the house, but he still hadn't shown up by noon for a meal or even for a cup of coffee. Early in the day, she thought she heard him out on the back porch, but when she'd opened the door, he was gone. He'd left the day's supply of milk and eggs there on the porch, but never returned for breakfast. Lacey supposed she should have gone after her husband then and asked him when he wanted to eat, but after the row they'd had last night and the fact that he never came to bed, she was afraid of his rebuke. And she most certainly had one coming.

Above all else, Lacey knew she'd been awfully free with her tongue last night in her quest to remain unsullied—in fact, she'd never in all her years talked to anyone the way she'd snapped at Hawke. But then no one else had asked her to perform this wifely duty thing before either. And she was afraid of all that might entail; she was so very afraid.

Later that afternoon, Lacey sat in the chair near the fireplace and struggled mightily to sew up a long tear along the sleeve of one of her husband's flannel shirts. Lord, how she hated this mending business, but she knew she had to do at least this much and cook for him too if she expected to get out of performing that other chore. After jabbing the needle back through the thick cloth and pricking her already tender fingertip again, Lacey hunched over her lap, glaring fiercely at the tangle of knots in the long black thread, and renewed her assault on the tear. Then she heard the front door bang against the inside wall of the house.

Startled, Lacey glanced up to see Hawke standing in the doorway, his large frame silhouetted by the explosion of sunlight behind him. Her heart lurched at the unexpected sight of her husband, then nearly quit beating altogether. Hawke didn't say a word at first, but just stood there, his feet spread, his expression full of purpose.

He was wearing his buckskins, she noticed, the shirt gaped open to his navel. That made it easy for Lacey to spot the sharply defined ridges of Hawke's smooth, muscled chest as well as the faint sheen of perspiration clinging to his cinnamon skin. If that wasn't enough to give her pause, his long hair had come free of its thong, and now hung loose around his broad shoulders. Between the way he was dressed and his entire manner, she suddenly had the feeling that something had entered the room with him, a palatable sense of urgency... or danger. Alarmed by the idea, but somehow excited by it as well, Lacey drew in a sharp breath, then shivered from head to toe.

Although he was pleased by his wife's open fascination with him, Hawke remained tight-lipped and serious, but not harsh as he finally said, "Afternoon. Sewing are you?"

"O-oh, ah, aye, that I am. One of your shirts I found with a big tear in it, in fact."

Hawke stepped into the room. "Can you put it aside for a while? Crowfoot's gone down to Three Elk to visit Caleb for a few days and meet the other Irish bride. I could use some help in the barn, if you don't mind."

"Oh, aye." Even if he'd suggested she bake a pie, she'd have tried it just to get out of the mending! "I'll come with you right away."

After she snipped the thread and tied the ends together, Lacey stored the needle and scissors in the cigar box on the table, then rose and tossed the shirt toward the chair. The flannel material touched down on the pine seat but then sprang back at her in the next instant instead. Puzzled, Lacey gave the shirt a good yank and tossed it again, but this time her navy skirt went along with it, and she finally saw the reason why. Somehow, she'd managed to sew her husband's flannel shirt to her own clothes.

Hawke struggled to keep a serious expression as Lacey raised her gaze to meet his, exposing her crimson features. Between the odd mating she'd done with their clothing, and her horrified expression, he almost lost the battle with his composure, but he couldn't laugh at her now. Not after coming up with the perfect plan at last.

Trying to diffuse the situation as quickly as possible, Hawke strode over to the cigar box, removed the scissors from it, then dropped to one knee and snipped the threads which held the two items of clothing together. "There," he said. "No harm done."

"I—I ne'er tried to sew before, y-you know," she muttered, her tongue tripping over her teeth. "I told you that once, and also that I'm willing to learn how—"

"It doesn't matter," he interrupted, in too much of a hurry to discuss mending or her plans to become a better seamstress. "I was just going to use that shirt for rags anyway. Will you come with me to the barn now? That's where I really do need your help."

"Oh, well, of course."

The minute Hawke turned his back and started for the door, an enormously relieved Lacey glanced down at her skirt to look for any damage she might have inflicted upon it. The puncture marks from the needle had faded by now, leaving nothing but Hawke's memory—and perhaps his damnable ledger book—to point out her ineptitude as a seamstress. Lacey took it as a lucky sign anyway and lightly tapped the heels of her boots together, jingling her spurs. Then she followed her husband out the door. It didn't matter the manner of chore Hawke had selected for her to do in the barn, she thought with anticipation. Compared to the curse of this silly mending business, anything else he asked of her would be like picking clover.

Once they were outside, instead of going straight to the barn, Hawke directed Lacey to follow him to the hitching post out front where a horse was tied.

"This is Dolly," he said, taking the animal by the halter as he introduced her. "She's part mustang and, I suspect, a little bit of everything else that roamed these hills over the years. I haven't had much time to work with her yet, but I think she might be a good little saddle horse one day. Maybe even for you, if you like her."

"For me?"

He nodded. "What do you think of her?"

Surprised by the offer, but pleased since Lacey took this gift as a definite sign that Hawke had forgiven her outburst in the kitchen, she examined the cute little bay mare. Dolly was dark brown all over with a black mane and tail, a white blaze which ran from her forelock to the tip of her nose, and four white socks, the pair in the rear decorated with black spots which resembled anklets.

Lacey offered her left palm to the animal's muzzle. "She's a beauty, Mr. Winterhawke, a sweet little lass and one I'd be proud to call my own. I thank you kindly."

"Hawke, Lacey," he corrected gently, "just Hawke. And you're welcome. I'm going to clean her up a little now, and I'm not too sure how she's going to feel about having water splashed over her. I'd like you to hold her and make her acquaintance, speaking quietly like you did with Taffy. Just keep her as relaxed as possible. Can you manage?"

"Oh, aye—the lass is already acting like a very good friend of mine." And it was true. Everywhere Lacey touched Dolly, the animal leaned into her, begging for more. "You can go on about your business now. We'll be just fine."

"I'm sure you will." Hawke gave Lacey a long look as he pulled the tails of his shirt out of his trousers, completely unlaced the garment, then slipped it off and hung it over the hitching post. Taking the bucket in one hand and a rag in the other, he began washing the animal, explaining a little more about her as he worked. "Dolly's too small to sell to the cavalry, and because of her size I'd pretty much decided against breeding her, too. Now that she's in season, though, I figured I'd give her one chance to see what she and Phantom can come up with. It might just turn out to be a good match after all."

"You mean the lass is to become a mother?"

"If she catches, she will be in just under a year."

As if agreeing to the plan, Dolly raised her head and uttered a shrill whinny, the effort vibrating her entire body, and then she began to stamp nervously in place. When a resounding whinny echoed from the barn in response to her call, Dolly's tail began to twitch and she sidestepped, swinging her rump up hard against Hawke's backside.

"Easy, girl," he murmured. "It won't be long now. Hold her a little tighter, would you, Lacey?"

"Oh, aye." She renewed her grip, doing a good job of calming the horse, and was listening hard to Hawke's instructions and explanations, but the majority of Lacey's attention—and her gaze—was focused on the fact that he was wearing nothing but his buckskin trousers; pants, now that they were wet, that clung to his muscular thighs and rode down low on his trim hips.

She'd never seen so much of
him
before, always going out of her way to keep her eyes shut each morning and night as he slipped in and out of bed. Now that she had looked upon her husband's nearly nude body, Lacey couldn't keep her eyes off his nakedness, especially the way the muscles of his back and shoulders rippled and bunched while he worked on bathing the little mare.

Dolly whinnied again, and once more received a return call from the barn. This time, she tossed her head and tried to twist out of Lacey's grasp. "Behave yourself... lass," she said, her voice faltering, a little breathless. "You must obey Hawke and let him finish with you."

She glanced at him then, aware he'd turned his gaze on her, and found herself trapped as usual. Yet, something in the way he was looking at her today was different, ominous even. It gave her a little flutter down low in her tummy, but then Hawke's curious expression vanished, and in its place, he flashed the dazzling smile that always turned her insides to jam. A sudden tremor racked Lacey's body, and her knees went weak.

She tried to draw a breath of air, but gasped instead. "Lord," she said, fanning herself, "isn't it a hot one outside today?"

The wind that always seemed to be blowing through Centennial Valley felt cool against Hawke's skin, almost chilly, but he smiled as he said, "Just a touch." Then he picked up the long white strip of cloth he'd rolled into a ball, and began to wrap Dolly's tail with it.

Still having trouble holding the mare in place, not to mention keeping her own body under control, Lacey asked, "Why are you putting a bandage on the lass's tail? Has she hurt herself?"

"No, she's fine." He spoke to his wife in his best gentling voice, the tone low and husky. "Horsehair is very strong, almost like wire. The bandage is just a precaution to make sure Phantom doesn't get cut."

"Phantom? What does he have to do with her tail?"

"As I said earlier, I've decided I'd like to see what they can produce together." Hawke glanced at Lacey and winked. "Are you ready to go to the barn? Dolly's getting really impatient."

The horse was dancing in place by now, but Lacey barely took notice of the animal as the implications of what Hawke was suggesting sank in. Surely he didn't mean he expected her to help in the actual
mating
of the horses.

She took a breath, which again was more of a gasp, and said, "You intend to... to breed Dolly with Phantom, then?"

"That's the way it's usually done." Hawke circled the mare's hindquarters, then moved up to the hitching post to untie her. "She's getting awfully skittish. It might be best if I walk her to the barn. You can take over again in there."

"B-But..." Hurrying along behind Hawke and Dolly, Lacey couldn't help but notice that he hadn't bothered to put his shirt back on. And somehow he'd managed to get water all over the seat of his buckskins; now they clung to his backside, making that area look as if he wore nothing at all. Allowing herself a little more of the visual luxury, Lacey's gaze traveled up and down the length of her husband's body as she asked, "But can't you just turn Phantom loose in his corral, or in with the mares to accomplish the, ah, deed?"

He answered her from over his shoulder. "No, Irish. A million things can go wrong when you let horses breed in the pasture. I've seen everything from stallions who've been kicked in very, er, sensitive places, damaging them badly enough to ruin them as studs, to broken legs, which ruins them period. Phantom is too valuable to me to be taking any chances with him." He paused then, turned, and gave Lacey a piercing look. "This is one day, Irish miss, when I'm not about to let anything go wrong. Come along now."

With that, Hawke and the mare passed through the wide double doors, and in a second were swallowed up inside the barn. Lacey, who stood just outside, gulped and wrapped her arms around her waist. Her heart was pounding crazily, her mind a flurry of wild thoughts. Part of her, a very wicked part, she thought, was enormously excited by the idea of observing this ritual; an act, like birth, she'd never witnessed before in any creature. And yet to watch such an intimacy in the company of a man, never mind that he was her husband, seemed terribly—