The Tenderfoot Bride Page 3

  She gave a brusque nod and continued her fire building. Pausing again, she glanced up. "Do you have matches?"

  He withdrew a tin from his saddlebag and lit the kindling. While he went for water for coffee, she used the supplies he'd set out to mix biscuit dough.

  Will set the pot on to boil and opened a can of beans.

  They ate in silence, the woman once again eating slowly and deliberately, not looking at him as she did so.

  Afterward, she carried the pans to the stream and returned with them scrubbed clean. She'd obviously done this before, knew how to cook over a fire and make do with little. He hadn't had to tell her how to do anything or even ask for her help. If she'd simply sat and let him do it all, he would have considered that normal for a city woman. Her abilities proved her more capable than he'd imagined.

  For the first time he seriously wondered about her circumstances and why she'd answered the ad for employment on an isolated ranch.

  Taking two bedrolls from under the tarp, he unrolled them on opposite sides of the fire.

  She sat on a stump, warily watching his preparations.

  "This suit you?" he asked finally.

  She nodded, keeping her gaze carefully averted.

  An owl hooted from a nearby tree and the sounds of small scurrying animals were magnified in the dark. Maybe she was afraid of being out-of-doors at night. Coyotes, wolves and bobcats were plentiful in these mountainous regions, and on her trip to the Double T, Cimarron had probably warned her to stay close to the fire and to him.

  Will placed his rifle near his bedroll, removed his boots, and stretched out with one of the two blankets, using his leather bag as a pillow. He'd slept in this manner more nights in his lifetime than he had in a bed under a roof.

  The mouse moved around some after he closed his eyes, and he cracked them open a slit. She'd taken off her shoes and unbound her hair. She was sitting on the padding, using a brush to untangle the shiny mass. It wasn't really mousy hair at all, but tresses a rich lustrous shade of mahogany that the fire seemed to light from within. He imagined he could hear the crackle of the bristles running through it over the hiss of the fire. Over her shoulder, she plaited the silken mass into a long braid. When she finished and tucked the hairbrush into her bag, he told himself he wasn't disappointed.

  Finally, with a grimace and a stifled groan, she eased down and covered herself with the blanket.

  She glanced his way.

  Will feigned sleep.

  Chapter Three

  After a few minutes, he peered through his lashes to see she'd fallen asleep with a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  Her physical discomfort was clear, though she hadn't complained once. She hadn't said a word about the sparse noon meal or the hard bumpy ride or sleeping on the ground. But then he was used to Aggie, and that cranky old gal complained more in a day than most women could in a lifetime.

  Will thought about how worried the shy young woman had looked when he'd observed her studying the countryside when she hadn't known he was looking. She had taken in the scenery, from time to time closing her eyes and inhaling, as if she wanted to remember the smells and sounds. This was beautiful country, no question about that. He wondered where she was from.

  He thought over her hesitation to eat because she wasn't earning the meal. Did she think everything had to be earned? Had he given her that impression? Probably. He'd been madder'n hell when he'd seen how small and unsuited she was for the jobs that needed doing.

  She was unsuited for ranch work, and he didn't have to feel guilty over saying so. He would never have chosen her, and he didn't know why the hell Corinne had. His sister was a businesswoman, raising two young children, and he'd trusted her to make a sound judgment.

  Listening to the crackle of the fire and thinking he'd wake up later to add another log, Will drifted to sleep.

  He awoke to an unfamiliar sound. He'd spent many a night on the ground, listening to cattle low and horses stomp and blow, to men snore and to animals gathering food in the cover of darkness, but this sound was unfamiliar to his trained ear.

  It was a soft, snuffling sound, like no animal he'd ever heard. He came fully awake and lay perfectly still, straining to hear. The muffled sniff was clear.

  The mouse was crying.

  The knot in his stomach twisting, he listened to her tiny sounds of misery. Turning his head, he glanced across the dwindling fire. She huddled in a ball beneath the blanket, the fringed edges of her shawl touching the dirt near her head.

  The blanket quivered, as though she trembled beneath. Was she cold? Afraid of the night? What should he do?

  Damn the fool woman for being a problem and a hindrance from the moment he'd set eyes on her. Damn Cimarron for hauling her across country only for Will to take her back. And damn Corinne for getting him into this. He plotted the nasty telegram he would send her when he got to Denver. Had the mouse been her idea of a joke?

  The quiet crying continued until he wanted to yell for her to shut up. A man couldn't even sleep in peace with her around. What did she have to cry about? One job, one lousy job she'd been turned away from. Life was all about taking the ups and downs, and nobody was immune.

  A barely stifled sob made it through the blanket.

  Maybe there was more to her loss than just this one job.

  What would make a woman travel across the country for a difficult position? He hadn't advertised for a wife, thank God. Just a cook and housekeeper. Shouldn't a young woman like her have better prospects?

  Granted, she wasn't much to look at, at least not that he could see. She had pretty eyes and her face wouldn't exactly make a freight train take a dirt road, but she was no raving beauty. However, men advertised for brides all the time, and took them sight unseen. Didn't she want a family?

  His thoughts shifted. Maybe she was still grieving. She was a widow, after all. Little more than a girl, by all appearances, but one who'd been married. Perhaps she'd lost a young virile husband whom she'd adored.

  Will gritted his teeth. Damned if he wasn't lying awake in the middle of the night, wondering about the fool woman's problems.

  At last the sobs subsided and eventually he fell back into slumber. When he woke next, it was full morning and she had started coffee and biscuits without waking him.

  She had the shawl pulled around her against the morning chill, but at least she needed it this morning. Her hair was hidden by the straw hat she already wore.

  The brim didn't hide her puffy eyes or the redness around her nose. He said nothing, ate a biscuit and drank the coffee, then stood and started toward the horses. He stopped and turned back to look at her.

  She had picked up the leftover biscuits and was efficiently rolling them into a square of white fabric. She tucked the bundle in her bag.

  Will experienced an odd sinking sensation in his chest. Guilt ate at his conscience. Was she afraid she wouldn't have anything to eat after they parted? She'd squirreled away a portion of her bread and cheese the day before, too.

  He let himself really think about her reasons for coming to Colorado. Had she needed the work so badly that she wouldn't be able to afford to eat? The notion was unfamiliar to him. He'd always made a living, but then he was a man.

  Women did things they normally would never do if they hadn't been desperate for a means to support themselves. God knew he'd paid for his share of women in his younger days, not caring why the sportin' women supported themselves in that manner. Was the widow McConaughy's situation hopeless enough that she'd do something like that?

  He stepped back to where she was wiping out the skillet. "Was this job important to you?'' he asked.

  Startled, she glanced up. Her cheeks turned a deep pink. "I need work," she said, rubbing her palms together nervously.

  Will waited for more, some explanation, a clarification.

  "Your sister assured me I would be right for the job," she said softly, then shrugged one shoulder. "I would never have come if I'd known that you w
ouldn't like me."

  Wouldn't like her.

  Damn the idiotic urge that had made him ask.

  She had grit, he'd give her that. She'd come all this way, not knowing what she was getting herself into— hoping for a job. She was uncomplaining and competent.

  Corinne had assured her she'd be given a job. Had given her hope. And what had he done? Growled at her like a mad grizzly and packed her back to start all over.

  He wasn't caving in because of the crying he'd heard, by God. That would be foolish. And it certainly wasn't anything about her scrawny looks that gave him a second thought.

  It was the doggoned damned biscuits. The bread and cheese she'd hidden away like a mouse with a cache.

  She thought he didn't like her.

  Well, he didn't. Why the hell should he?

  Aware that the stupidest words he could ever say were doing a Texas two-step on his tongue, he pursed his lips and thrust his fingers into his hair, kicking dirt with the toe of his boot in frustration. He clamped his mouth shut.

  She straightened and backed away with apprehension in her unusual gold-flecked eyes.

  He groaned inwardly. She was terrified of him. What the hell was he doing? "All right!" he shouted to the heavens, causing her to jump. He glared at her. "You can stay."

  She blinked, confusion wrinkling her brow, and composed herself. "What?"

  "You can stay, dammit!" He gestured down at the supplies. "Pack up and get your bony behind on that wagon seat. We're going back."

  She clearly didn't know what to say or think. She studied him warily. "I'm not sure I understand."

  "We're going back to the ranch," he said as if talking to a three-year-old. "I'm going to give you a chance. I'll give you a month to prove you can handle the work without killing yourself. If it's too much— if it's too hard—then I'll pay you for your time and take you to Denver and put you on a train and be rid of you. Understood?''

  Relief seemed to sweep her features and lessen the tension lines around her mouth. She blinked rapidly and nodded. "Yes. I understand. I can handle the work, I swear I can."

  "I'll be the judge of that."

  She nodded again.

  Already kicking himself for his flimsy resolve, he turned and strode toward the horses. What in Sam Hill had he done now?

  She still didn't speak, but those funny little worry lines between her eyes had smoothed out some. If they didn't stop, they could make it back to the Double T by late tonight. He told her so, and she agreed with a nod.

  "You need to stop, you say something," he said.

  She asked twice, and he obligingly halted the horses near foliage, and while she did her business, he poured cups of water from the canteen. She brought out the biscuits, the stale bread and cheese she'd packed away and shared with him.

  By evening, she swayed so dangerously on the seat that he ordered her into the bed of the wagon to lie down. She did so, and from time to time he glanced at her sleeping form in the darkness, cursing himself for his weakness.

  When at last he pulled the wagon into the yard, he got down and climbed into the back. She didn't make a move, but slept soundly.

  Gravel crunched and Cimarron appeared from the direction of the bunkhouse. "Back already, boss?"

  "Yep."

  Cimarron discovered Linnea sleeping in the wagon bed and his brows rose in surprise. "Something wrong with her?"

  "Just tired is all." Will gathered her into his arms, and stepped to the ground, her hat falling behind somewhere.

  "You change your mind, boss?" the hand asked in surprise, undisguised hope in his voice.

  "Not really. I decided to give her a month is all. Then she goes back. Grab her bag, will you?"

  Will carried her into the house, surprised by how light she felt in his arms. She barely weighed anything, but she didn't feel as bony as he'd suspected. Through his shirt she seemed soft and delicate against his chest. He placed her on the bed where she'd slept the night before—or where she'd been assigned to sleep the night before—and looked down at her. Even in slumber, worry seemed to be keeping her from looking altogether peaceful.

  Cimarron set the bag down. "I'll put up the team."

  "Thanks." Will turned and met the young man's eyes, gauging his thoughts. "She still goes if she can't do the work."

  Cimarron hung the straw hat and her shawl on a peg. "I didn't say anything."

  "Good. Don't." Cimarron left the room and Will turned back to the woman on the bed.

  Without time to talk himself out of it, he picked up one ankle and unlaced her boot, slipping it off and moving to the other. The leather was cracked and worn and, though the shoes had been polished, the soles were scuffed nearly all the way through. He placed them on the floor by the wall and pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed up over her.

  Tendrils of her hair had pulled loose during the day and lay softly against her temples and her neck, giving her a distinctly feminine appearance. Her dark lashes fanned down across her cheek, and her rosy lips were parted and soft looking.

  She was so small and frail, how would she ever bear up under the grueling workload? He was going to be sorry he hadn't followed through with what his head told him was the best and carted her all the way to Denver. He'd given his word though, and there was nothing he could do about it now, but let her fail.

  Will backed from the room and closed the door.

  Linnea woke surprised to find herself back in the comfortable little bedroom, lying on the cushiony soft mattress. She sat up and winced at the aches that shot through her hips and lower back. That wagon ride had been torture, and she suspected that Will Tucker had deliberately guided those horses through every gully and over every boulder, just to see her suffer.

  Thinking of him made her wonder how she'd come to be lying on this bed. Concern crept into her thoughts. Had she slept so soundly that she didn't remember him bringing her in? Turning back the lightweight blanket, she studied her stockinged feet with skeptical regard.

  A knock sounded at the closed door. It had been left unlocked, she noted belatedly. Her heart hammered. She knew nothing about Will Tucker except his bad temperament. Maybe he had read more into her desperation than was there, and there'd be hell to pay now. "Yes?" she called, hating how timid her voice sounded.

  "There's hot water out here," Aggie said in her reedy voice.

  Relieved, Linnea got unsteadily to her feet. "Thank you.''

  Linnea found the old woman making her tedious way down the hall toward the kitchen, and appreciated the effort it took for her to do something so simple as to come wake her.

  "Will said to drink that." With her cane, Aggie gestured toward a mug on the table.

  Linnea peered into the cup. "What is it?"

  "Not sure. He wouldn't kill you on purpose, if that's what you're thinkin'."

  Linnea picked up the cup and sniffed. The liquid looked like weak tea and smelled like a green plant. She took a sip and found the taste bitter, but not undrinkable. "What's it supposed to do?"

  "It's for aches." The booming voice came from the doorway. Linnea glanced up to see Will Tucker's broad-shouldered frame blocking the opening. His sudden appearance and the statement caught her off guard. He set two milk pails inside the door. "Cover those with wet cloths."

  She nodded and he left.

  Surprised that he knew of her discomfort, yet more surprised to think that he might actually care to ease it, Linnea drank the tea with a grimace. Taking a bucket of hot water back to the room, she washed, fixed her hair and dressed in clean clothing. Today she had her chance to prove she could do the job and secure a place for herself.

  She made flapjacks, stirring the batter smooth and browning the cakes in perfect circles on the griddle. Cooking was delightfully easy in Will Tucker's kitchen. He had all the proper ingredients in good supply, so she didn't have to substitute or leave anything out. The walls were filled with pans, the cupboards stacked with bowls and wooden spoons and there was plenty of wood for th
e stove, already split and neatly stacked nearby. And he thought this job was hard? She shook her head. He'd obviously never lived like she had in the past.

  She smiled to herself as she placed the platters of flapjacks and sliced ham on the table.

  The middle-aged ranch hand who'd been in first the morning before entered and hung his hat. "Mornin', Miz McConaughy."

  "Morning."

  "Name's Roy, in case you didn't catch it before."

  "Pleased to meet you, Roy."

  "Not as pleased as I am to meet you." His handsome smile encompassed the food on the table. "You're a fine cook, ma'am."

  She lowered her gaze and turned away for a stack of plates. "Would you care to do that whistle thing again?"

  "My pleasure." He stepped to the door and gave his shrill whistle. Turning back, he said, "Pardon my mentioning it, but there's no jam or honey on the table."

  "Oh." She glanced around helplessly. She'd thought she had everything ready.

  "I've known the boss since we were just boys. He's always liked applesauce on his flapjacks."

  "Applesauce?''

  "Yes'm." He pointed.

  Linnea hurried to the tall cupboard he indicated and took out several jars. In her experience there had never been canned fruits or jams. Those were luxuries, and she'd felt lucky to have a pint of sorghum. "Mr. Roy?"

  "Just Roy, ma'am."

  "Okay. Whenever you see that I've…um…forgotten something, like the jam, will you remind me?"

  "Happy to," he said with a grin.

  The men hit the back porch then, and within minutes the kitchen was filled with activity and the air charged with good humor.

  "Mornin', ma'am."

  "Works of art, those flapjacks, ain't they?"

  "Melt in yur mouth, they do."

  Linnea carried a plate to where Aggie sat in her rocker, and the old woman gave her a genuine smile as a reward.

  The ranch owner seated himself at the end of the table and Linnea made her way toward him, pouring coffee as she went. When she reached him, he glanced up and met her eyes.

  He'd carried her in last night, she was pretty sure. She didn't remember getting out of the wagon on her own. She was not comfortable thinking the man had touched her while she'd been in such a vulnerable state—removed her shoes. Warmth rose up her neck into her cheeks, and she looked away.