The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1) (22 page)

She breathed a deep sigh at his words. His expression alone would have said it all. A man wanted a woman who was a real lady, not some wild, rifle-toting hoyden.

“Case in point, Sam.” Becky dismounted, sliding silently to the ground. She loaded her rifle, pressing a bullet into place, and closed the breech block with a satisfying snap.

“You’ve got a way with that weapon, gal.” Sam’s tone was filled with admiration.

“I’ve been hunting since—well, it seems like forever.”

“Your pa teach you?”

She laughed dryly, the irony of his question catching her off guard. “Papa? No. He didn’t do much of anything with me—and we both preferred it that way.”

“That so?” he said slowly, with a note of disbelief she couldn’t miss.

She glanced at him briefly, and then walked slowly along the trail. Siren trailed behind her like a well-trained dog.

“Let’s just say he breathed a sigh of relief the day I left,” she said softly.

“I can’t believe that, Becky.” He matched her hushed tone.

Flashing him a look of surprise at the use of her nickname—it caught her square in the heart to hear him say it—she halted for a moment, then continued walking, her pace careful and quiet.

“Believe it,” she whispered, scanning the trees, her ears alert to the slightest noise. She put a hand up to warn him.

He’d already stopped, his gaze trained in the direction of the rustling tall grass. Becky brought her rifle up and eased the hammer back. She stood stock-still, ready for any sign of movement. When a turkey broke free of its hiding place and took flight, she paused for a moment to admire the flash of burnished bronze as the morning sun lit the bird’s feathers, and then, with firm resolve and a steady aim, brought the turkey down with one shot. She ran over to check on it.

Sam whistled through his teeth. “Good shot.” She heard the admiration in his voice as he crouched beside her and looked over her kill. “This here’s a beauty,” he added. “Never seen a woman bring down a wild tom in flight like that with one shot.”

Becky blushed at his unexpected praise. Focusing her attention on preparing the bird for the trip home, she ducked her head and avoided Sam’s curious gaze. His easy silence and willingness to lend a hand with the bird meant more to her than he could possibly know. Hunting had become such a lonely occupation lately—whereas growing up, she’d associated the time with companionship. With Jack.

“You’re quite skilled with that rifle of yours. Don’t see why you’re keeping your hunting a secret from Isaac. My boy’s no starched-up city fellow, you know. I think you should just tell him.” His persistence wore on her resolve.

Becky thought about her visit to Dally’s camp and how they’d had two rifles hanging over their door.

One man’s rifle. One
ladies’
rifle. And a pretty one at that.

Catherine’s probably.

It had struck her dumb for a few seconds, mostly because it looked like the rifle had been well-used, not just a display piece. That meant that Catherine
used
it. And Dally had it up on the wall where anyone who wanted to could see it.

She suffered many an uncomfortable squiggle of doubt because of it. This was an untamed country. Maybe men here appreciated a woman with a good aim. Hadn’t Isaac taken her out to teach her to shoot?

“I’ll think about it. I promise.” Becky stopped and placed a hand on Sam’s arm. “Isaac thinks highly of you, Sam. And I can see why. You’re a good father to him.”
And already more a father to me than I’ve ever known
, she added silently. She stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek.

He had to bend a little for her to reach, and she noticed his deeply tanned cheeks were growing a little flushed. Crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes as he grinned at her.

“Well, I’m not sure ’bout Isaac ‘thinking highly of me’ lately, but I thank you for your kind words just the same. I’d have liked having a daughter like you. Guess I do now. Guess I do.” His grin widened. Patting her hand resting on his sleeve, he gave an embarrassed-sounding cough and nodded for her to mount her horse. “I’ll bring your bird back for you.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Becky said, smiling.

She didn’t say so, but she was sure Sam simply didn’t understand about Isaac. It was one thing to accept her actions as a father-in-law. It was another for
her husband
to appreciate her unorthodox behavior. Isaac’s acceptance would mean the world to her, she thought as she mounted Siren and urged her toward the trail.

As her horse picked her way through the forest, unbidden memories of Jack and Melody crept into her mind. She remembered the day she’d found out Melody was expecting. How painful that had been. That bit of truth that had convinced Becky she needed to escape for good. Then, the very next day, Mr. Preston had arrived in town. She’d thought it a sign, a touch of God’s own hand. And she’d read the letter from Isaac Jessup, latching onto it immediately. Dreams—foolish mind wanderings at best—had filled her head. Now she knew Sam, not Isaac, had penned the letter she’d read. Did the old man know what trouble his actions had brought on his son and on her too? Looking over at his strong profile, so like Isaac’s, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry with him.

Her memories of Jack and Melody simply reinforced her determination to keep her hunting escapades a secret from Isaac. Every day her heart seemed more and more tied up in him. She thought about him all the time. Watched the way he moved. Admired the width of his shoulders, his easy, take-charge grace. She was oh-so aware of the way her heart beat a little faster whenever he looked her way. A single smile from him could knock the wind right out of her.

He was much too important to her now to risk disappointing him any further.

No, she’d make every effort to be the kind of wife every man desired—even if that meant acting like a perfect lady for the rest of her life.

***

Isaac heard the sound of laughter even before he reached the porch of the cabin. He pushed open the front door, his eyes seeking out the two occupants in the kitchen having such a good time.

“Hello, Pop. Rebecca.” He took in Rebecca’s profile, her flushed cheeks, the plain brown dress. With her reddish-gold hair braided and looped up into a loose knot at the back of her head, she looked so at home. He couldn’t believe she was helping Pop truss the wild turkey laid out on the table.

“Isaac, my boy!” Pop greeted him warmly, his voice loud with mirth. “Welcome home.”

“Pop, another bird? You’re making me feel like the undeserving son,” Isaac said, silently adding to himself,
and a husband who hasn’t been providing for his wife
. “I’ve been planning to bring down a deer. Maybe this Sunday after church. There’ll be plenty to share.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Pop shot a look at Rebecca, his brows raised in some sort of message Isaac didn’t understand.

Rebecca quickly turned away and washed her hands in the basin. She seemed to be avoiding Isaac’s eyes as she dried her hands on a cloth. He wondered what her actions meant. Was she embarrassed about the night they’d had to spend at Dally’s, how close they’d had to lie next to each other? Maybe she found his presence discomfiting. If so, the feeling was mutual. If only he knew what directions her thoughts were turning.

“We’re grateful, Pop,” she said, giving his father a sort of strained smile, and then turned her attention to Isaac. “It’s a nice big turkey this time. We’ll have a hearty supper tonight. Perhaps your father would like to join us?” She seemed to be asking them both.

“Stay.” Isaac added his invitation, glad Rebecca had offered and marveling over the easy relationship that had grown up between her and his father. She’d just called him Pop. He’d heard her say it clearly, and Pop hadn’t batted an eyelid.

Pop wavered, his gaze shifting from Rebecca to Isaac, until he finally conceded, “Thank you kindly, both of you. I’ve missed sharing a meal as a family.”

“I’ve missed it too.” Isaac excused himself and went out back to the barrel to draw a bucket of water so he could wash up more thoroughly in his room. As he was walking back into the cabin, he stopped with one calked boot poised on the step. If he went inside and headed for his old bedroom, Pop would think it awful strange. He didn’t want those probing eyes on him, and he didn’t want to answer any difficult questions.

So he took a step back and quickly stripped off his coat and shirt, leaving his suspenders hanging, and sluiced the icy cold water over his skin. With a shiver, he pulled his shirt back on, realizing as he did so that it was filthy. He’d need a clean one. He sighed. Now what? He shrugged into his coat and held it closed with one hand. He left the bucket by the back door and quickly marched past Rebecca and Pop. He tried to block out the startled expression on Rebecca’s face as he ducked through the door into the new room. Her room. He knew he had at least one clean shirt in the wardrobe.

He’d caught the look she’d given him as he’d hurried past. She’d looked nervous. She must be wondering what he planned to do in here.

Looking around the room, he could see why. There was a pile of clothes tossed in the corner, and the bed sheets and covers were still rumpled. She’d likely taken another nap this morning after he left. There was something cozy and warm about the way the bedclothes formed a little nest, the way her pillow was curved into a letter “C” as if she wrapped it snugly around her head while she was sleeping. He gave himself a shake.

Respecting her privacy, he tried not to gape at her things and quickly found an old dark-green flannel shirt in the wardrobe. He jerked off his damp work shirt, threw it onto the pile of clothes in the corner, and tugged on the one he’d laid out on the bed. He swiftly buttoned the shirt and tucked the tails into the waistband of his pants. He regretted having to invade Rebecca’s space and hoped she’d understand his desire to keep Pop out of their private affairs.

As soon as he returned to the kitchen, he immediately sought out Rebecca, sending her a silent look of apology. Her eyes were wide, and he thought the way she swallowed seemed a bit uneasy. When he tried to reassure her with a nod, she smiled slightly and resumed packing the bird with cornmeal stuffing.

“Rebecca’s getting quite good with a gun,” Isaac said.

His father turned to him with an over-wide smile. “Is that right?” He glanced at Rebecca, who seemed frozen in place, looking at Pop with what seemed outright panic, which was strange. Evidently it was a topic she didn’t want openly discussed. “So, Isaac’s been teaching you to shoot, eh?” Laughter lines crinkled around Pop’s eyes. He seemed to find the subject greatly amusing.

Rebecca’s cheeks flushed a pretty rosy color. She flashed a look at Isaac and, with another uneasy smile, replied, “Isaac’s a good teacher, Pop. Did you teach him to shoot?”

She’d neatly turned the subject from herself, Isaac realized, but he followed along to ease her obvious embarrassment. How could he have been so insensitive to think a young lady would want to confess to doing something as unwomanly as holding a gun?

“Yeah, but Isaac near grew up with a gun in his hands.” At Rebecca’s questioning look, Pop added, “Living on the frontier is a dangerous life.” His eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. “His mama was a fair shot herself.”

Rebecca fumbled her grip on the bird and nearly dropped it to the floor. Pop grabbed it from her and set it safely back into the pan.

“She was?” she asked, wide-eyed, maybe a tad disbelieving.

Her incredulous tone wasn’t lost on Isaac. She probably thought it an unnatural skill for a mother to master a weapon.

Isaac joined them at the kitchen table and sat in a chair, regarding the interchange between the two of them with interest. Pop was up to something, but he wasn’t sure what. You never knew what Pop would say or do next.

“Maybe the three of us could all go deer hunting on Sunday, Son.”

Aha
. So that’s what he had brewing in his scheming, interfering mind—God love him. But he was being surprisingly insensitive. Couldn’t he see Rebecca had no interest in shooting? Why, she was practically itching to change the subject, at least away from her.

“I’m sure Rebecca’s not interested in hunting deer, Pop. It’s not exactly a ‘ladylike’ activity.” Isaac sent a sympathetic glance Rebecca’s way, but she had her gaze fixed on the turkey or the floor, he wasn’t sure which.

Pop scowled at him something fierce. If he’d been holding the turkey at the time, Isaac had the oddest feeling his father would’ve thrown it at him. What in the world?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Fool son. Thought I raised you to have more brains than that,” Pop muttered. He grabbed up the pan and slid the dressed turkey into the oven, closing the door with a decided bang—an irritated kind of bang.

Rebecca shot Pop a look that clearly said,
I told you so
. Where that came from, Isaac had no idea. Had they been talking about him? Most likely. He watched in confusion as she mumbled an excuse and quickly rushed into her room, closing the door behind her.

“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Isaac’s demand evidently fell on deaf ears, for Pop brushed by him and dropped into the rocker with a resigned sigh.

“You’re going to have to figure this one out for yourself, Son.” Without giving Isaac a chance to respond, he started talking logging equipment, effectively avoiding Isaac’s question.

Isaac listened to Pop with one ear. He responded with grunts whenever his father paused, but his attention was focused on Rebecca’s closed door. Why did he have the impression he’d hurt her feelings somehow?

Women. Couldn’t understand them for the life of him.

EIGHTEEN