The Wrong Cowboy
The Wrong Cowboy
Lauri Robinson
One mail-order bride in need of rescue! All the rigorous training in the world could not have prepared nursemaid Marie Hall for trailing the wilds of Dakota with six orphans. Especially when her ingenious plan—to pose as the mail-order bride of the children’s next of kin—leads Marie to the wrong cowboy! Proud and stubborn, Stafford Burleson is everything Marie’s been taught to avoid. But with her fate and that of the children in his capable hands, Marie soon feels there’s something incredibly right about this rugged rancher and his brooding charm.... “A delightful western…humor, realism and sweet emotion.” —RT Book Reviews on Inheriting a Bride
“He’s not at the ranch, either,” Mr. Burleson said then.
“Mr. Wagner?” she asked, even though she knew that was exactly who Stafford Burleson meant.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
He shrugged. “Texas. Mexico.”
Marie couldn’t deny a quick flash of relief as it washed over her. Maybe she wouldn’t have to face the marriage issue right away. She and the children could get settled in and …
“For how long?” she asked.
His gaze never left the road. “Can’t rightly say. Could be next spring before he gets back.”
“Next spring?”
Panic overtook any sense of relief. Her funds were almost gone. The children would starve to death by then, unless … She shivered at the thought, but unfortunately Stafford was her only hope.
Something in his eyes, the way they shimmered, had her mouth going dry, her nerves tingling as though a storm was approaching. Maybe there was another option.
“Who lives at Mr. Wagner’s ranch in his absence?”
“Me.”
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_340b8fc0-bb0c-5240-b46e-6d7146554024)
Welcome to THE WRONG COWBOY. If any of you have read THE COWBOY WHO CAUGHT HER EYE, Marie was the woman on the train with all the children. From the moment I typed that minor reference I knew I had to write her story.
In doing so, I was also provided with the opportunity to incorporate an inanimate object that used to drive me crazy into one of my books. Our previous home had a wood stove that I could build a fire in blindfolded. Then we moved into this house and I encountered the stove from—well, you know … That stove and I battled … I have a scar from when the door mysteriously swung shut, hitting me on the head. Mysteriously because I was the only one at home. I am glad to say that stove never got the better of me—not completely—before we replaced it years ago.
Unfortunately the stove Marie encounters does best her—but everything happens for a reason.
I hope you enjoy meeting Marie, Stafford and all the children who eventually provide Marie with the family she’s always wanted.
The Wrong
Cowboy
Lauri Robinson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEDICATION (#ulink_ea1e0d97-7281-5a90-a473-f626ede8151f)
To my wonderful friend Jean.
Thanks for the lunch dates, the brainstorming, and the research trips.
LAURI ROBINSON’s chosen genre to write is Western historical romance. When asked why, she says, ‘Because I know I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to grow up and marry Little Joe Cartwright.’
With a degree in early childhood education, Lauri has spent decades working in the non-profit field and claims once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after romance novels have always been a form of stress relief. When her husband suggested she write one she took the challenge, and has loved every minute of the journey.
Lauri lives in rural Minnesota, where she and her husband spend every spare moment with their three grown sons and four grandchildren. She works part-time, volunteers for several organisations, and is a diehard Elvis and NASCAR fan. Her favourite getaway location is the woods of northern Minnesota, on the land homesteaded by her great-grandfather.
Contents
Cover (#ud4461449-121b-5db1-be15-f22cfd5e69c1)
Introduction (#ua19ba4bf-3cb8-5a5f-b64d-cb9847f8eb4b)
AUTHOR NOTE (#u660c4811-8734-5135-b216-6dda1f1c925b)
Title Page (#u6e394fec-658a-5b05-aa3b-624160781069)
DEDICATION (#u8d7f04d1-5ff2-5a4a-ab0b-48cda26e21ce)
About the Author (#u03f9b370-74fe-5ad0-bb31-5bc70bf41c10)
Chapter One (#u7e695be2-5317-5f97-b6d0-3a4a62a0eec0)
Chapter Two (#ubf050477-9697-5e7d-bd5c-850296a09489)
Chapter Three (#u09ccbbd9-3abd-5b53-821c-176adca3e7dd)
Chapter Four (#u1654aa51-8c26-5e55-9411-be7a9dd9e28c)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_7c61e2c2-6e24-580f-94a6-7b3af5073ab0)
August, 1884, Dakota Territory
Stafford Burleson prided himself on a few things—he wasn’t a quitter, his cooking wasn’t all bad, he was a mighty fine carpenter and he was quick on his feet. His wits were good, too. He was known for coming up with a plan at a dead run, yet right now he found himself dumbfounded. “What?”
“Mick’s mail-order bride is waiting for him at the hotel in Huron.” Walt Darter’s scratchy voice repeating exactly what he’d said a moment ago made about as much sense the second time around as it had the first.
This time Stafford added a few more words to his question. “What are you talking about?” He set his cup down and dug his fingers into hair that sorely needed a good cutting. His scalp had started to tingle and he scratched at it. Eerily. “Mick didn’t order a bride.”
“That’s not what she says.” Walt couldn’t have looked more stone-cold serious if he’d been standing before a judge and jury.
“Who?”
“Miss Marie Hall.” The old man’s face was sunburned from years of riding in the summer sun, and as he said her name a grin formed and his chest puffed with pride as if he’d just announced he’d found a goose that laid golden eggs.
The woman’s name was completely unknown and Stafford pondered that. No one from Huron had been out this way for several months. Not that it was expected. The little town of Merryville had sprung up around the people who chose to stay behind when the railroad camp packed up to follow the tracks westward. There weren’t too many businesses there yet, but he and Mick now bought their supplies in Merryville. It was only a few miles north of their land, and the railroad company had promised that, when the line was done, a depot would be built in the settlement, which meant cattle could be shipped and received there. It was what he and Mick had predicted would happen when they settled on their tracts of land and formed a partnership for the Dakota Cattle Company.
Their plan, to build one of the largest cattle operations in the north, was falling into place more smoothly than the railroad line. Although Stafford would be the first to admit—and he often did—they still had plenty of work to do before they could sit back and savor the rewards of what they’d sowed.
Right now, they were still driving in herds every year, consisting of various breeds to ensure nothing would wipe them out. Not weather or disease. He’d brought in a hearty line of Herefords out of Texas this spring, and Mick had left a few weeks ago to go farther south, into Mexico, to purchase some of the Spanish cattle he’d read about.
A grin tugged at Stafford’s lips. Mick must have stopped in Huron, let it be known he was heading south. “You almost had me on that one, Walt,” Stafford said, letting out a sigh. In the five years since they’d settled out here and claimed hefty shares of glorious land from the government, Mick had talked about finding a wife, especially during the long cold winters. Stafford, having had his fill of women before he left Mississippi, told Mick countless times what a bad idea that would be. He went so far as to suggest Mick heat up a rock on the cookstove if his bed was that cold, had even hauled home a few good-size stones now and again, just to keep the teasing going. Practical jokes were never far apart between the two of them. Mick was like that—a jokester.
Half the men in the territory, including Walt, had heard Mick spout off about finding a wife, and the old jigger must be trying to carry on the joking. “So, what’s your real reason for being here?” Stafford asked, picking his cup up again. “No one rides a day and a half just to say hello.”
The deep wrinkles in Walt’s face remained as the merriment slipped from his eyes and the grin transformed into a grimace. The kind people make when they’re delivering bad news. A chill raced up Stafford’s arm and he set his cup back down.
“That is the reason I’m here, Stafford. There’s a woman claiming to be Mick’s bride, or soon to be, at the hotel.” Walt shook his head as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying, either. “And she’s got a passel of kids. Six I think, but I could be wrong. I’d have brought them out,” Walt went on, after taking a sip of his coffee. “But I ain’t got a rig that big.”
The eerie sensation was back, suggesting the man was serious, yet Stafford, as usual, stuck to his guns. “The joke’s on you, Walt,” he said. “Mick’s not here. He and a few cowhands left last month. I don’t expect them back until the snow flies, or next spring if he buys cows.”
“Oh,” the man said, as if that was news. Bad news. Shaking his head, he added, “I ain’t trying to fool you, Stafford. There’s really a woman, and she’s really claiming to be Mick’s bride.”
Stafford bolted out of his chair and was halfway across the room before he knew he’d moved.
“What are you gonna do?” Walt asked.
“What am I going to do?”
Rubbing his stubble-covered chin, Walt appeared to be contemplating the ins and outs of the world. “Well,” he said slowly. “I suspect you could hire one of Skip Wyle’s freight wagons.”
Growling and rubbing at his temples, Stafford silently called both Mick and Walt a few choice names. His question had been hypothetical. He didn’t need a freight wagon. Mick hadn’t been any more serious when he’d talked of marriage this time than he had been dozens of times before.
Don’t be surprised if I come home with a wife, Mick had shouted as he’d kneed his horse out of the yard. But he said those same words practically every time he left for town. As usual, Stafford had replied that Mick had better add on to his cabin first. His partner’s reply had been the same suggestion as always. That Stafford could do that as a wedding gift, since he was the one who liked to build things.
The sensation that came over Stafford was that of breaking through ice on a frozen lake. That had actually happened to him once, and Mick had been there to pull him out and haul him home.
Right now he wasn’t remembering how sick he’d been afterward, how he still hated walking on frozen water. Instead, he was recalling how his parting conversation with Mick hadn’t ended as usual. This time Mick had told Stafford that he’d better hurry up, have the cabin done by the time he returned.
“Damn,” Stafford muttered before he spun to stare at Walt who was refilling his coffee cup from the pot on the stove. Another shiver rippled down his spine. “Six kids?”
Walt nodded.
* * *
Marie Hall sat on a patch of green grass in the field next to the hotel, watching Terrance and Samuel play with the dog they’d discovered begging for food last week. A stray, possibly left by someone traveling through, that’s what Mrs. Murphy, the aging woman who cooked for the restaurant and who’d saved scraps for the animal, had said.
Marie smiled to herself, for the dog—white with brown patches—had been just the diversion the boys needed. Marie shifted her gaze to make sure Beatrice and Charlotte were still picking daisies, and then she glanced toward Charles and Weston. Never far apart, the youngest of her wards were chasing grasshoppers and mimicking them, which had Marie chuckling at their somewhat awkward leaps. The twins were only four so their coordination wasn’t the best.
They were adorable, though. All six of the Meeker children. Strangers on the train, and here in town, had commented they all looked identical, not just Charles and Weston, and would ask how she could tell them apart. It was easy. Perhaps because she knew them so well.
Like right now. “Charles,” she said warningly. “Do not put that in your mouth.”
Little blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes looked up at her mournfully. Marie forced her gaze to remain stern as she shook her head. He dropped the pebble and returned to jumping, following his brother.
A heavy sigh settled deep in Marie’s lungs. It had taken four months to break him of sucking his thumb, and ever since the fire, rather than his thumb, Charlie was forever putting things in his mouth. Anything he could find. It was comforting for him, she understood that, but also extremely dangerous. Some days she wondered if she should allow him to suck his thumb, just until things were settled. The poor dear had been through so much.
They all had been through a lot, and it wasn’t over.
“Marie Hall?”
Startled, for she hadn’t heard anyone approach, Marie snapped her head around so fast her neck popped, making her flinch.
The bright sun only allowed her to make out the silhouette of a tall man with a wide-brimmed hat. Gathering her skirt, she rose to her feet. “Yes,” she answered, standing and shading her eyes with one hand.
Besides the hat, he had on a gun belt and a black leather vest. Dark brown hair hung past his shoulders and his chin was covered with a similarly colored beard. Marie couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder that raced over her skin. She’d come to understand most men out here wore guns, but she’d sincerely hoped Mick Wagner would be more civilized.
A lump formed in her throat. “Yes,” she repeated. Her nerves wouldn’t allow her to offer a hand in greeting, so she rested hers atop the heads of the twins who now stood one on each side of her. “I’m Marie Hall.”
“Are you the cowboy that’s gonna be our new da?”
That was Weston. He was the most verbal of the twins, and Marie stopped herself short of correcting him to say father instead of da. She had more important things to worry about. Such as how rough around the edges Mick Wagner appeared to be.
The others had gathered close, and Terrance pushed Weston’s shoulder. “We don’t need a new father.”
Being the oldest, Terrance was greatly opposed to Marie’s plan. She could understand a boy of ten wouldn’t want a new father, and she’d tried to explain they didn’t have another option. By proxy, Mick Wagner was now responsible for all six Meeker children. Making the man understand they came along with her was a concern. She hoped, with all she had, he would see their inclusion as a benefit.
There had been rumors, after a man named Walt Darter had ridden out to Mr. Wagner’s ranch last week, that Mick hadn’t ordered a bride. No one mentioned it to her, especially not Mr. Darter. He’d simply said Mick wasn’t home but that a message had been sent to him. She’d thanked Mr. Darter for his efforts and never let it be known she’d heard the whispers or seen the finger-pointing. Partially because it wasn’t a rumor. Mick Wagner hadn’t ordered a bride. And partially because she had no idea what she and the children would do if he didn’t claim them—soon.
“I—” She had to clear the squeak from her voice. “I’m assuming you’re Mr. Wagner.”
“Nope,” the man said.
Marie was still processing a wave of relief when Weston asked, “You’re not our new da?”
“Nope,” the man repeated.
“Are you a cowboy?” the child asked.
“Yep.” He winked at Weston. “Just the wrong cowboy.”
Marie couldn’t let Weston’s questions continue, yet hers floundered as she said, “Is Mr. Wagner...”
“I’m his partner,” the man said. “Stafford Burleson.”
Terrance snorted and bumped his shoulder into Samuel’s. “Stafford,” he whispered, as if finding great humor in the name. Samuel, seven and always eager to follow his older brother, snickered, as well.
Marie chose to ignore them. She’d learned, while being trained as a nursemaid, which battles were worth fighting when it came to children of every age. This wasn’t one. Besides, she couldn’t quite fathom a cowboy having such an unusual name, either. Not to mention she was more than a bit relieved to know this wasn’t the man she’d told everyone from here to Chicago had ordered her as a bride. “Is Mr. Wagner in town?” she asked. Several people had told her Mick Wagner’s ranch was a distance from Huron—too far for her and the children to travel alone.
Tipping the edge of his hat back, and giving her a very penetrating stare from eyes that looked to be as gray as a storm cloud, the man acted as if he wasn’t going to answer her questions.
Marie’s nerves started jumping faster than the grasshoppers the twins had been chasing. She’d been charging things in Mr. Wagner’s name since leaving Chicago. Soon the bills would be more than she’d be able to repay. That wasn’t her major concern—the children were—but with each day that passed, their financial situation had started to trouble her more and more.
Finally, when the air in her lungs had built up a tremendous pressure from his stare, Mr. Burleson said, “I’m here to take you to Mick’s place.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but her sigh was so long she wondered if her toes had been holding air. When it was all out, she nodded. “Well, thank you. We’ve been expecting he’d send someone.” In truth she’d been praying he’d come, or send someone, but she’d never allow the children to know she’d been worrying about the outcome of their adventure.
The man nodded. “We can head out in an hour.”
“An hour?” Still shaky with relief, it took Marie a moment to process his statement. Her thoughts shifted to everything that needed to be done before they left, and she shook her head. “That’s not possible. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Burleson’s stormy eyes glared again. “We’ll leave in an hour.”
“No, we won’t.” She spun about, gestured to the children. “Gather your playthings. It’s time to return to our rooms.”
They minded without question, for once, and she turned back to the man. “We’ll be ready to leave tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”
“It’s barely noon,” he said. “We can get a good number of miles under our belt yet today.”
“Tonight is bath night, Mr. Burleson,” she said, holding her ground. When it came to the children and their needs she’d argue until the sun set—dealing with the solicitor back in Chicago had taught her to not back down. No matter how frightening it was. “I will not have the children’s schedule upset.”
“You will not—”
“That’s correct,” she interrupted. “I will not.” No good nursemaid would, and she was the best nursemaid that had ever come out of Miss Wentworth’s training course. The owner herself had said as much. Marie had a document that proclaimed it in writing. She’d used it as a testimonial when interviewing for positions. Not that she’d need it anymore. Abandoning the Meekers was something she’d never do. That’s what she’d told Mr. Phillips, the solicitor, back in Chicago, as well as several other people who’d suggested such a thing. She’d been hired as their nursemaid, and she would fulfill her duties.
The children had gathered around again, holding their toys and looking at her expectantly. So was Mr. Burleson. With so much to do, Marie couldn’t waste any time. “You can see to the hotel bill and the train fares, Mr. Burleson, and then bring the wagon around. A large number of our possessions can be loaded this afternoon.”
“Hotel bill? Train fares?”
“Yes. For the children.” She didn’t explain she’d paid her own way, by selling her necklace and ear bobs. It wasn’t necessary. The letter she’d written Mr. Wagner prior to leaving Chicago explained it all. How his cousin, Emma Lou Meeker, and her husband, John, had perished in the fire that burned down the entire block surrounding the gas-fitting firm Mr. Meeker had owned. And how, a mere week after the funeral, Mr. Phillips had appeared at the Meekers’ big brownstone home, explaining that the bank owned everything. He’d stated the children were to be put in an orphanage until Mr. Wagner could be notified. Upon his approval, the children could then be put up for adoption. Mr. Phillips had gone on to explain a few neighboring families were interested in adopting one or two.
Marie held off her shiver of horror. That would not happen. Either option. The only chance the children had of staying together was Mr. Wagner. Emma Lou had listed her cousin as the benefactor on a small life insurance policy. The paperwork for the policy was safely tucked away, and Marie would present it to Mr. Wagner upon their meeting. The policy would be more than enough to reimburse him for the travel and lodging expenses the children had incurred, though not enough to raise all six children to adulthood. That was something Mr. Wagner would have to see to. She’d help, of course, as much as possible. She owed Emma Lou and John for paying off her debts, and this was how she could repay their kindness. If not for them she wouldn’t have the small amount of money she did have. Above all, though, the children needed her, and she would not let them down.
Clapping her hands, she said, “Children.”
* * *
Stafford stared as the woman, nose in the air, marched away, followed by the flock of red-headed kids like a mother duck leading her brood to water. Or like Custer leading the 7th Cavalry Regiment into battle. That conflict might have had a different outcome if Marie Hall had been leading the troops. She fired demands like bullets.
He’d met her kind before. Saw the way she shuddered and the disdain in her eyes as she took in his appearance. So he needed a haircut and a shave. That was none of her business. He’d considered visiting the barbershop before meeting her, making himself presentable, but curiosity had won out. The chance to get a glimpse of the woman who was claiming Mick had ordered her had been too strong when Walt said the bride-to-be was behind the hotel in Huron.
Stafford hadn’t planned on heading home until tomorrow, either, but her haughty attitude had changed his mind the moment she’d stood, lip curled, as her eyes roamed over him from nose to tail like he was a mangy cow on the auction block.
His partner didn’t have any more time to visit the barber than he did—the cattle company kept them both busy. Then again, it was highly unlikely Mick and Marie Hall had ever met. They might have corresponded though. Most likely last spring, while he’d been gone, down in Texas rounding up cattle. Mick had been home, then, and she could have sent him a picture. His partner was a sitting duck when it came to a pretty woman. He went half crazy over them. Women, foolish as they were, fell for Mick’s boyish charm, too.
Stafford took another long look as the woman turned the corner, kids trailing behind.
He’d never seen so many freckles. Not all at once. And not one of those freckle-faced little kids looked anything like her. They were all fair skinned with copper-colored hair, whereas she had dark hair and eyes in shades of brown that teetered on black. That had him wondering what happened to her husband. The father of all those kids, or da as one had called him. That little guy had quite a lisp, and as much as Stafford hadn’t wanted it to, a grin had won out when the kid spoke.
They disappeared around the corner of the hotel, every last one of them. Stafford took a step to follow, but paused. Miss Marie Hall. That’s what Walt had called her. Miss. It made sense, too, considering she didn’t look old enough to have one kid, let alone six.
Whose kids did she have?
Stafford scratched his chin, which itched due to the inch-long whiskers. Mick may have ordered a bride, but there was no way he’d have ordered six kids. That much Stafford would bet his life on.
Huron was a busy place, the railroad made it so, and someone knew something. She’d been here over a week, and with a town this size, people would know her story. He’d start at the depot. Find out about those fares she was referring to, as well as a few other things.
An hour later, Stafford concluded Mick was going to owe him more than money when he finally returned. Those weren’t her kids—as he’d suspected. They were a stack of orphans she’d rustled up after their parents died in a fire. The ticket master had told him that, and how she’d promised Mick would pay their fares upon his arrival. She’d paid her own fare, though, which didn’t make a lot of sense and left more questions in place of the few Stafford had found answers for.
After leaving the depot, he’d rented one of Skip Wyle’s freight wagons—had to after learning about the amount of luggage she had. From what he’d heard, it took up one entire hotel room. “The children’s things,” she’d called them—that’s what he’d been told.
This woman was pulling one over on Mick. That was clear. A part of Stafford didn’t mind that. It was time Mick learned a lesson, a hard one about women. All the warnings Stafford had supplied over the years sure hadn’t done anything.
The wagon had been sent to the hotel, along with a couple of men to load it, and though Stafford considered leaving his hair and beard as they were, since it clearly disgusted Miss Marie Hall, he couldn’t take it. His razor had snapped in two last month and he’d been itching—literally—to get a new one ever since, not to mention how his hair had grown so long it continuously whipped into his eyes.
Besides, men waiting for a haircut gossiped more than women sewing quilts, and that alone was enough to make Stafford head straight for the barber shop. By the time Mick arrived home—which would hopefully be soon because Stafford had sent a telegram to Austin, knowing his partner would make a stopover there—Stafford would know everything there was to know about Miss Marie Hall. He’d fill in the blanks for Mick—those that he instinctively knew she’d leave out—long before wedding bells rang.
Stafford just didn’t want to see Mick bamboozled. They might both get married some day, raise kids across the creek from each other, but neither of them would be conned into it. He wouldn’t because he was smart, had long ago learned what to watch out for, and Mick wouldn’t because they were best friends, and friends looked out for each other.
* * *
Stafford’s confidence was still riding high the next morning as he headed toward the hotel. He hadn’t learned a whole lot more about Miss Marie Hall, but what he had fit perfectly with what he already knew. He still doubted—as he had from the beginning—that Mick had ordered her. It was possible she’d somehow heard about a cowboy—well on his way to becoming a wealthy rancher—who spouted off about wanting a bride. The fact that Mick wasn’t around played into Stafford’s thoughts, as well. Without his partner to interfere, he’d be able to show her just what living on the plains meant. Men had to be tough, but women, they had to be hard, and that was the one thing Miss Marie Hall wasn’t. He could tell that by her hands. They were lily white.
There was a definite spring in his step as he made his way down the hotel corridor to knock on her door. Upon hearing movement, he shouted, “Burning daylight.”
All Marie saw was the back of a stranger turning the corner, heading for the hotel stairway, when she opened the door. She’d been awake for some time, assembling the essentials the children would need this morning and making sure they each had specific items in their satchels. The men who’d packed the wagon yesterday said they’d have to spend one night on the road, most likely in the wagon, before they arrived at Mick Wagner’s ranch, and she wanted to make sure the children wouldn’t be put out much by the travel. The train trip had taught her to pack books and toys, things to hold their attention. It was for her sake as much as theirs. She’d been frazzled by the time the train had arrived in Huron, and didn’t want to be that way upon meeting Mr. Wagner.
“Is it time to leave?” Beatrice asked.
“It’s time to get up,” Marie answered, glancing toward the child sitting in the middle of the bed. Peeking back into the hall, though she knew it was empty, Marie frowned. The voice had made her skin shiver, and she’d thought it was Mr. Burleson, yet it must not have been. At least, the man turning the corner hadn’t been him—far too well groomed. Which was just as well, she’d see enough of Mr. Burleson for the next day or two, and not telling him he needed a shave and haircut was going to be difficult.
He’d occupied her thoughts since meeting him yesterday. For the first time since embracing her plan, an unnerving dread had settled in her stomach and remained there. She’d imagined Mick Wagner would be like his cousin. Refined, with a kind and gentle nature. Someone who would see the children’s welfare as the priority. That’s how Emma Lou and her husband, John, had been. If Mr. Wagner was anything like his partner, he wouldn’t have any of those qualities. Mr. Burleson surely didn’t. The only time he’d looked remotely pleasant was when he’d winked at Weston. Thank goodness there would be others traveling with them today. Being alone with Mr. Burleson...
She gulped and slammed two doors shut, the one to the room and the one allowing crazy thoughts into her mind.
Beatrice and Charlotte chatted excitedly about the adventure of riding in a covered wagon, and Marie feigned enthusiasm, to keep them from worrying. That was part of her job. Children should never worry about being safe, or going hungry, or any of the frightening things she’d encountered growing up.
In no time, the girls and all four boys, who’d been staying in the adjoining room, were dressed and ready for breakfast. After checking under the beds one final time to ensure nothing would be left behind, Marie led her charges out the door.
In the dining room she settled everyone upon the chairs at their customary table and caught her breath before taking her own seat. That’s when she noticed the man watching her. Her cheeks grew warm from his stare, and she quickly averted her eyes. A good nursemaid never noticed men, no matter how handsome, and she was the best.
His ongoing stare gave her the jitters, and Marie did her best to ignore the stare and her fluttering stomach. Meals were ordered for the children, along with toast and tea for herself, which she would once again pay for separately. She’d never be indebted to anyone ever again, including Mr. Wagner. Her meager savings were dwindling quickly, but hopefully Mr. Wagner would see her worth and hire her. She’d be able to replenish her monies then. Right now, the children’s future was her priority and worth every cent she spent. They were also what gave her the courage to stand up to the men at the bank, the railroad, even the hotel and everyone else they’d encountered during this journey.
With appetites that were never ending, the children cleaned their plates, even Charlotte, who was a finicky eater. Marie was savoring her last sip of tea when a shadow fell upon the table. It was the man. She knew that without looking up, and fought the urge to do so, hoping he’d move away. He was a stranger, not one of the locals they’d come to know the past week.
“You should have eaten more than that,” he said. “It’ll be a long time until we eat again.”
The voice sent a tremor down her spine, and Marie couldn’t stop her head from snapping up. It couldn’t possibly be Mr. Burleson, yet the vest, the hat, the gun belt...
One brow was raised when her eyes finally found their way all the way up to his face, which was clean shaven. His features were crisp now, defined, including an indent in the center of his chin, and his eyes seemed no longer gray but faded blue and almost twinkling. That’s when Marie saw his smile. It slanted across his face in a cocky, self-assured way that was extremely vexing. Not exactly sure she could, or should, speak at this moment—for something deep in her stomach said he wouldn’t be as easy to deal with as the other men she’d encountered—she pinched her lips together.
“You said it was bath night,” Stafford Burleson stated, as he practically pulled the chair out from beneath her.
Chapter Two (#ulink_7b4b48f5-93de-51db-93ce-a2c71d519cf9)
The tension inside her was not a good sign, especially when Marie knew it had very little to do with the children or the wagon or even the bumpy ride. It was him. Stafford Burleson was the reason. Not just his good looks. Her efforts to ignore him weren’t working. Who would ever have known that under all that hair...
She shook her head, tried again not to think about his looks. If only her friend Sarah were here now, she’d have some thoughts on what to do about that. And other things.
Sarah was the Hawkins family’s nursemaid. They’d lived down the road from the Meekers and the two of them often took the children to the park together. Sarah had said the Hawkinses had made inquires about eventually adopting the twins—Charles and Weston—having only girls themselves. Knowing how Marie felt, Sarah had helped formulate this mission—taking the children to meet the guardian named in their mother’s will.
Sarah had known a woman who’d gone west as a mail-order bride, said the man who’d ordered her promised the railroad he’d pay for her fare at the other end, and insisted Marie could do the same thing. Uncomfortable expecting Mick Wagner to pay for her fare, Marie had sold the jewelry the Meekers had given her for Christmas—it wasn’t like she’d ever have the occasion to wear such things, anyway. The children’s fares were a different issue. Therefore, she’d used the mail-order bride ruse, and was thankful it had worked as well as it had.
Sarah said Mick Wagner would probably be glad to hire her as the children’s nursemaid, which is exactly what Marie hoped. She couldn’t imagine being separated from the children. However, she wished she’d asked Sarah a few more questions. Her friend had a much broader understanding of men, and often spoke of the day she’d be married with her own children to raise. She’d declared that marrying Mick Wagner would be a good choice, if he was so inclined, because Marie would never have to worry about finding another job. She didn’t want another job, but every time she glanced at the man beside her, the idea of marriage made her insides tremble.
She closed her eyes and fought against another tremor. If Mick Wagner was anything like the brute sitting beside her, he could very well demand things. Things she couldn’t even fathom. Holding her breath, Marie pressed a hand to her stomach. Surely a man with six children to raise wouldn’t insist on embarking upon behavior that might produce another one? Miss Wentworth’s lesson on copulation had been extremely embarrassing to sit through, and the lesson on childbirth downright dreadful.
“Marie.”
The whisper in her ear had her turning around, purposely not glancing toward Stafford Burleson beside her on the front seat of the wagon. The bouncy ride made the train journey they’d experienced seem comfortable in comparison, and the hot sun blazing down on them was relentless.
“Yes, Weston,” she replied to the child standing behind the seat, protected from the sun by a billowing canvas. “What do you need, dear?”
The child whispered in her ear.
“Very well.” Still without glancing his way, she said, “Mr. Burleson, we need to stop.”
“Stop?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
Marie played with the bow at her chin that kept her bonnet from fluttering off with the wind, willing herself to maintain the nursemaid calm she’d perfected. The man’s tone was laced with impatience—as it had been all morning—which grated on her nerves. Patience was the number one trait a person working with children needed to maintain, and he was souring hers. “Weston needs to take care of something,” she stated.
“What?” Stafford Burleson asked, as he flapped the reins over the horses’ backs, keeping them at a steady pace.
“I’m sure I don’t need to explain what he needs to take care of,” Marie said, nose forward. “At least, I shouldn’t have to.”
A low growl rumbled before he said, “Didn’t you tell them to do that before we left town?”
Biting her tongue would not help, even if she had a mind not to speak. “Of course I did,” she declared, “but small children have small bladders.”
“Not that small,” he exclaimed. “I can still see Huron behind us.”
She couldn’t help but glance around and gaze through the front and back openings of the canopy covering the wagon. The dark cluster on the horizon ignited yet another bout of tremors. She and the children were now completely at the mercy of this insufferable man, with nothing more than prayers for protection. Refusing to panic, she said, “In country this flat, I’m sure a person can see for ten miles or more.”
“We haven’t gone ten miles,” Mr. Burleson insisted. “We’ve barely gone two.”
“That, Mr. Burleson,” she said, “makes no difference. Weston needs to relieve himself and you will stop this wagon immediately.”
The snarl that formed on his face was frightening, but it also snapped her last nerve in two. He was the most insufferable man she’d ever encountered. If it had been just her, she might have cowered at his bullying, but she was the only protection the children had. She would not see them harmed, and that gave her the courage, or perhaps the determination, to return his stare with one just as formidable.
Marie was sure he cursed under his breath, but since he also pulled the horses to a stop and set the brake, she ignored it—this once—and turned around.
Climbing out of the high wagon was like climbing down a tree. Instead of branches there were steps and wagon spokes to navigate—an extremely difficult task with her skirt flapping in the wind. The alternative, having Mr. Burleson assist her as he’d tried to in town, was out of the question, so Marie managed just fine, apart from a stumble or two.
She kept her chin up, suspecting the foul man was now chuckling under his breath, and marched toward the back of the wagon where she lifted Weston to the ground.
“Go behind that bush,” she instructed, gesturing toward a scattering of shrubs a short distance away.
Weston scurried away and Marie glanced toward the wagon, prepared to ask if any of the other children needed to relieve themselves.
“If anyone else has to go, do it now,” a male voice demanded harshly.
Spinning about, she eyed him. “I was about to suggest that, Mr. Burleson.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Were you?”
“Yes, I was.” Arguing in front of the children should be avoided at all measures, so she took a deep breath and turned, poking her head over the end gate. “Does anyone else need to join Weston?”
Five little heads, those she’d protect with her life, gestured negatively. The quivering of Charlie’s bottom lip had Marie’s ire flaming. Whirling round, she grabbed one solid arm and dragged Mr. Burleson a few feet away from the wagon. “I will not have you intimidating these children.”
“You will not—”
“That’s right,” she interrupted. “I will not permit you to speak to them so. There is no need for you to use that tone of voice around them. They are small children and—”
“Where the hell did you come from lady?” Stafford interrupted. One minute she was shaking like a rabbit and the next she was snapping like a cornered she-wolf— demanding things. Their luggage took up one entire freight wagon, leaving him no choice but to buy a second one this morning that included some kind of covering to keep the children out of the sun. It was now well past noon, and at the rate they were traveling it would take three days to get home. If he was lucky.
“There’s no reason to curse. You know perfectly well the children and I are from Chicago,” she said, pert little nose stuck skyward again.
Stafford shook his head. Didn’t anyone know a rhetorical question when they heard one?
“Get that kid in the wagon,” he barked, walking toward the team. Mick was going to owe him so much he might as well sign over his half of the ranch the moment he rode in. Dealing with Miss Marie Hall and her brood was costing more than money. Stafford’s sanity was at stake.
August was the hottest month of the year, and here he was traipsing across the countryside with a wagonload of kids and the haughtiest woman he’d ever met.
If he’d been thinking, he’d have hired another man to drive this rig and ridden Stamper, his horse, back to the ranch.
The wagon seat listed as Marie climbed up the side of the rig with about as much grace as a chicken trying to fly. So be it. He’d offered his assistance once—back in town—and wouldn’t do that again. He’d never been a slow learner.
Eventually, she got herself hoisted up and Stafford had to clench his hands into fists to keep from setting the team moving before she got herself situated on the seat. He’d have gotten a chuckle out of watching her flail about, but he wasn’t in a chuckling mood.
“We may proceed now, Mr. Burleson.”
“You don’t say,” he drawled, simply because he had to say something. Her uppity attitude had him wanting to show her just who was in charge.
Him.
Stafford snapped the reins and let the horses set a steady pace forward. The trail was relatively smooth and driving the rig didn’t take much concentration or effort. Anyone could do it.
“You know how to drive a team?” he asked.
She didn’t glance his way, just kept her snooty little face forward. “Of course not. I am a nursemaid, not a teamster.”
It had probably been a bad idea anyway. He just wanted to be anywhere but here right now. She was like every other woman he’d ever known, with a way of making a man feel obligated to be at her beck and call. He’d given up on that years ago and didn’t want to go back.
“A nursemaid?” he asked, when his mind shifted. “I thought you were a mail-order bride.”
Her sigh held weight. “A person can be two things at once.”
“That they can,” he agreed. Snooty and persnickety.
A cold glare from those brown eyes settled on him, telling him she knew he was thinking unkind thoughts about her, and he couldn’t help but grin. Let her know she was right. He even added a little wink for good measure.
Huffing, she snapped her gaze forward again.
Darn close to laughing, Stafford asked, “So how’d you and Mick meet?” The ranch was still a long way off and he might as well use the time to gather a bit more information. If she and Mick had corresponded, and if she had sent Mick a picture of herself, Mick would have waved it like a flag. Therefore, Stafford was convinced there had been no picture sharing. He also knew he’d need all the ammunition he could get once Mick saw her. Even as testy as a cornered cat, Marie Hall was a looker. Her profile reminded him of a charcoal silhouette, drawn, framed and hung on a wall to entice onlookers to imagine who the mysterious woman might be.
Not that he was enticed. He knew enough not to be drawn in by the graceful arch of her chin or how her lashes looked an inch long as she stared straight ahead.
After another weighty sigh, she said, “Mr. Wagner and I have not officially met, yet.”
“Lucky man,” Stafford mumbled, trying to override the direction his thoughts wanted to go.
An owl couldn’t snap its neck as fast as she could, and he was saved from whatever she’d been going to say when one of the kids—he couldn’t tell them apart for other than a few inches in height they all looked alike—poked their head through the canvas opening and whispered something in her ear.
Stafford’s nerves ground together like millstones at the way her voice softened. When she spoke to those children honey practically poured out of her mouth. When it came to him, her tone was as sharp as needles. He couldn’t help but imagine it would be the same for Mick. The poor fool. What had he been thinking?
An hour later, Stafford had flipped that question around on himself. What had he been thinking? Though he wasn’t an overly religious man, he found himself staring skyward and pleading. Save me. For the love of God, save me.
Traveling with six kids was maddening. They flapped around more than chickens in a crate and argued nonstop, not to mention he’d had to halt the wagon again, twice, for people to relieve their “small bladders.” No wonder. She passed the canteen between those kids on a steady basis. Insisting they drink in this heat.
He’d had enough. That was all there was to it. Enough. Even before discovering the dog—which looked more like a rat—the kids had been hiding in the back of the wagon. It had been clear Marie hadn’t known the older boys had smuggled it aboard, not until it, too, had to relieve itself. A dog that size wasn’t good for anything except getting stepped on, and from the looks of its round belly and swollen teats, there’d soon be a few more of them running around. Marie had been surprised about that, too. When he’d pointed it out, her cheeks had turned crimson.
Before she began loading the children and the dog back into the wagon, Stafford leaned through the front opening of the canvas, gathered up both canteens and stashed them beneath the seat.
They’d be putting on some miles before anyone got another drink. He wasn’t being mean, wouldn’t let anyone die of thirst, he was just putting his foot down.
It was a good ten minutes before everyone was settled in the back of the wagon and she’d once again stationed her bottom on the seat beside him. Stafford didn’t bother waiting for her signal, just gave out a low whoop that sent the horses forward.
A short time later, when the little guy with the lisp said he was hungry, Stafford merely shook his head.
She on the other hand, said consolingly, “I’m sure we’ll stop for lunch soon, Weston.” Flipping her tone sour as fast as a cook turns flapjacks on a grill, she added, “Won’t we, Mr. Burleson?”
“Nope,” Stafford answered.
“Yes, we will,” she insisted. “Children have small stomachs, and—”
“And Jackson is probably a good five miles ahead of us.” Pointing out the obvious, in case she’d forgotten, he added, “He has all the food with him. You were the one who said it wouldn’t fit in this wagon.”
Marie had to press a hand to her lips to contain her gasp. The wagon bed was so small, barely enough room for each child to sit comfortably, she’d had to insist all other items be placed in the larger freight wagon. Surly even someone as vile as Mr. Burleson could understand that. Though the freight wagon, once a dot on the horizon, was gone.
“Why did you let him get so far ahead of us?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” Mr. Burleson answered with a clipped tone. “You did.” He gave an indifferent nod over one shoulder. “Small bladders.”
Pinching her lips together didn’t help much. Neither did searching her brain full of nursemaid training. None of it had prepared her for this. Her education focused on what to do inside the home of her charges. Improvise. She had to find something to take the child’s mind off his hunger, and then she’d be able to work out what to do about it. Turning she reached for one of the canteens. “Have some water for now, dear.”
Neither container was where she’d left it. “Who has the canteens?” she asked, looking mainly at Terrance. Though she tried not to single him out, he was usually the culprit.
The boy shook his head. “I don’t have them.”
“I do.”
A nerve ticked in her jaw as she turned to look at Mr. Burleson. “Why?”
“Because I’ll say who can have a drink, and when.”
“The children—”
“Won’t starve or die of thirst before we catch up with Jackson.”
That would not do. “Mr. Burleson—”
Despite the heat of the sun, his cold stare had her vocal chords freezing up.
“No one is getting a drink of water, Miss Hall,” he growled. “And we aren’t stopping until I say.” He twisted his neck a bit more, glancing into the wagon bed. “You kids pull out some of those books she made you pack and start reading.”
Six sets of startled eyes—for the children had never been spoken to with such harshness—instantly turned to their bags. In a matter of seconds, they were all reading. Or, at least, holding books in their hands with their heads hung over the pages.
She shouldn’t feel this thankful to see them all sitting quietly, but in truth they hadn’t sat still for more than five minutes since leaving town. If someone hadn’t been complaining they didn’t have enough room, someone else was hot, or thirsty, or had to go. Yet she was their nursemaid, not Stafford Burleson, and he had no right to speak to them so.
Under her breath, so the children wouldn’t hear, Marie started, “Mr. Burleson, I cannot have—”
His glare came from the corner of one eye as he once again interrupted, “Don’t you have a book you can read, too?”
Floored, she huffed before finding her voice. “I—”
“I,” he broke in, “need some peace and quiet.”
She hadn’t been spoken to that way, either, not in a very long time. Besides the shivers racing up her arms, her throat locked tight. Peace and quiet. Blinking back the tears threatening to fall in a way they hadn’t done for years, Marie turned her gaze to the horses and focused on the harnesses going up and down, trying to forget. Or just not let the memories come forward. She’d been sent back to the orphanage because of those words. That had been years ago, she told herself, and could not happen now. Could never happen again.
It took effort, lots of it, and by the time everything was suppressed, Marie was breathing hard and deep, as if she’d just run several miles. She’d been here before, this emotionally exhausted, but not in a very long time.
“Here.”
Marie blinked at the canteen before her chin.
“Take a drink,” he said.
Her hands shook, but the tepid water flowing down her burning throat was such relief Marie took several swallows before worrying about the few droplets that dribbled down her neck. Her breathing was returning to normal, and by the time she’d replaced the cap and wiped away the droplets, she had much more control.
“Better?”
“Yes,” she managed, handing back the canteen. She couldn’t bring herself to glance his way, not even as his gaze blistered the side of her face. “Thank you.”
“They’ll be fine,” he said.
His voice was hushed, soft and even kindhearted, which threatened the control she’d mustered. “I’m sure you’re right,” she answered as firmly as possible. He was right. It took more than a few hours before a person’s stomach ached. A day or more until the pain became so strong that cramps set in. Those memories weren’t easily repressed, but they did remind her she was glad to have been sent back to the orphanage all those years ago.
“Look at that,” he said, one hand stretched out, gesturing toward the land covered with brown grass that went on for miles.
She’d been shocked at first, by the landscape so different from that of the city. Barely a green blade could be found, but she’d grown accustomed to it since arriving in Huron. That’s how life was, a series of changes one eventually got used to.
Marie also understood he was trying to redirect her thoughts, and she let him. No good ever came from dwelling on the past.
“It’s a deer,” he continued, “and two fawns.”
It wasn’t until the animal turned and leaped that Marie noticed two smaller ones bounding through the waist-high grass. “How did you see them?” she asked. “The grass is so tall.”
“Practice, I guess.”
“They’re so graceful,” she commented, watching until the deer disappeared. “Do they always run like that? Almost as if they’re flying?”
“Yes, deer are pretty swift animals. Haven’t you seen any before?”
“Just pictures.”
He seemed different, quiet, thoughtful, and the moments ticking by threatened to set her back to thinking, so she added, “There aren’t any deer in the city.”
“The city being Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“You lived there your entire life?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Never left?”
“Not until boarding the train for Huron.” Marie bit her tongue then, hoping she hadn’t just provided him with an opening to start asking questions again. Partner or not, she wouldn’t explain everything to anyone but Mr. Wagner.
“What are their names?”
She had to glance his way, and was a bit taken aback by the grin on his lips. It was really only a fraction of a grin, but friendly nonetheless. How could he do that? Go from formidable to pleasant like someone flipping a coin? Thankful her spinning mind could form a question, she asked, “The children?”
“Yes. What are their names? How old are they?”
All on its own, a smile formed. The simple thought of her wards did that all the time. “Terrance is the oldest. He’s ten. Next is Charlotte, she’s nine, and Samuel is seven. Beatrice is six and the twins, Charles and Weston, are four.”
“And why do you have them?”
Her initial response was to state that it was none of his business, but, in fact, he had come to collect them and was delivering them to Mr. Wagner’s ranch. A small portion of an explanation wasn’t completely out of the question.
After a glance backward that showed the children were indeed reading—well, the older ones were, Weston and Charles had stretched out between the others and were dozing—Marie leaned toward him slightly, so she could speak as softly as possible. “Their parents perished in a fire.”
“I’d heard that,” he answered just as quietly.
“Where?”
“From the ticket taker at the train depot.”
“Oh.” That wasn’t alarming. She had made mention of it, just so the man would understand her delay in payment more clearly.
“That doesn’t explain why you have them,” he whispered, leaning closer yet.
Marie had to swallow and sat back a bit. “I was hired as their nursemaid last year, after the one they’d had for several years got married.”
“Is this your first job? The first time you’ve been a nursemaid?”
Ruffled slightly, wondering if he was suggesting she wasn’t capable, she squared her shoulders. “It was my first permanent position, but I graduated at the top of my class five years ago.”
“Whoa,” he said. “I can tell you’re well trained and confident in what you do.”
“Thank you,” Marie said, although a lingering doubt had her wondering if that had been a compliment or not. Men were difficult creatures to understand. This one more so than any other she’d encountered.
“How old are you?” he asked.
That was an inappropriate question, but being in the wild as they were, he was their only hope of survival, so she should attempt to be civil to him. Besides, he probably didn’t know the difference between appropriate and inappropriate questions. “I’m twenty.”
A brow was lifted as he asked, “Twenty?”
She nodded.
“So, if you graduated five years ago, and just got this job last year, what did you do in between?”
“I worked for several families,” Marie answered. “Just for short terms, helping out as families looked for permanent nursemaids or while others were ill and such.” She attempted to keep the frustration from her voice. Moving from family to family, staying only a few weeks or days at times, was extremely difficult. She’d barely get to know the children in her charge before being assigned elsewhere. It had been expected, though, because of her age. “A large number of families like their nursemaids to be on the older side. Even the Meekers, but they were willing to hire me permanently considering their last nursemaid, though she’d been a woman well into her thirties, had chosen to get married and end her employment.”
“Had she become a mail-order bride, too?”
Marie chomped down on her lip, preventing a startled no. How had she talked herself into this corner? Not seeing a direct escape route, she took the only one she could fathom. “My letter to Mr. Wagner explained everything.”
He was frowning deeply and holding those gray eyes on her. “Mr. Wagner isn’t here right now.”
“I know that,” she snapped, unable to stop herself.
He lifted an eyebrow as his gaze roamed up and down her for a moment, and then he turned and stared at the road ahead of them.
The pressure was enormous, but Marie held in her sigh. They’d talked enough. Silence would be a good thing for a few miles. No longer thinking about her past, the future and its dilemmas were clamoring for her attention.
“He’s not at the ranch, either,” Mr. Burleson said then.
“Mr. Wagner?” she asked, even though she knew that was exactly who Stafford Burleson meant.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
He shrugged. “Texas. Mexico.”
Marie couldn’t deny a quick flash of relief washed over her. Maybe she wouldn’t have to face the marriage issue right away. She and the children could get settled in and... “For how long?” she asked.
His gaze never left the road. “Can’t rightly say. Could be next spring before he gets back.”
“Next spring?” Panic overtook any sense of relief. Her funds were almost gone. The children would starve to death by then, unless... She shivered at the thought, but unfortunately, Stafford was her only hope.
Something in his eyes, the way they shimmered, had her mouth going dry, her nerves tingling as though a storm was approaching. Maybe there was another option. “Who lives at Mr. Wagner’s ranch in his absence?”
“Me.”
She swallowed. “You?”
Nodding, he said, “Yep. I told you I was his partner.”
An icy chill raced up her spine. “So the children and I will be living with...”
“Me.”
Good heavens, what had she done? Not thought her plan out clearly, that’s for sure. Living with this man had to be worse than marrying Mick Wagner.
Chapter Three (#ulink_273409fa-6a88-56a0-aca8-e6a366de68e0)
Stafford told himself a hundred times over that he shouldn’t get pleasure out of someone else’s fear, but he just couldn’t help it. When he’d said she’d be living with him, it had scared her into next week, but he was enjoying how it had knocked some of the haughtiness out of her.
She was still uppity, and continued to use that insufferable tone with him—when she had to speak to him—but she was wary. That’s the part he liked. She needed to be wary. Very. A nursemaid hauling someone else’s kids across the country as a mail-order bride? What kind of tale was that? There was more to it. The way she wouldn’t look him in the eye when she talked said that. If he didn’t know better, he’d wonder if she’d kidnapped those kids. She’d left too clear a trail, though. Anyone could have followed her, if that was the case.
He had a lot to learn, and with all that was going on, Stafford was discovering one thing about himself. Flipping the cards, so to speak, on a woman, was rather exciting. That opportunity had never come up in his life before now. Being raised in a family of seven children with only one brother had given him plenty of experience with women. He’d been born in the middle of five sisters. His brother, Sterling, was the oldest, and had already been working alongside their father by the time Stafford had come along. That meant he’d been told what to do and when to do it by women since the day he was born. Not to mention Francine Weatherford. She, too, had thought a man was little more than a dog that needed to be trained. He’d grown and changed a lot since leaving Mississippi ten years ago, on his eighteenth birthday, shortly after Francine broke their engagement and announced she was marrying Sterling.
Out of duty, and at his mother’s insistence, he’d stuck around for the wedding, and he’d even been back a half dozen times over the years to check in on everyone, but there wasn’t a day that went by when he wasn’t thankful he’d made his escape when he had. Sterling had a load of kids now, too, almost as many as their parents’ house had held. And Francine, well, last time he’d seen her, she hadn’t been nearly as pretty as she’d looked to him all those years ago.
A ferocious round of barking had Stafford lifting his head from where he was harnessing the team. The little dog, dubbed Polly by one of the kids, was kicking up a dirt storm near a thick patch of bushes several yards away. Stafford made a quick head count. All six kids were piling things in the back of the wagon as Marie had instructed. It was she, he noted, who was missing from the campsite. He’d quit thinking of her as Miss Hall sometime yesterday. Using her given name seemed to irritate her, and he liked that, too.
“Jackson,” he shouted toward the teamster readying the freight wagon. “You know where Marie is?”
The man, a big blond Swede with a voice that came from his ankles, shook his head. “Nope.”
They’d caught up with the freight wagon before sunset the night before, where Jackson had chosen a good spot to call it a day and had a pot of rabbit stew ready to be devoured by six hungry children. Never unprepared, Stafford had had a bag of jerky and apples they’d all consumed as they’d traveled, but still, once they’d hit camp, those kids had all but licked their plates clean. Actually, the two little ones had licked their plates. Marie had scolded them while he and Jackson shared a grin. They weren’t so bad—those kids—once they’d figured out that they couldn’t run roughshod over him the way they did over Marie.
Polly was still going wild, and Stafford settled a harness over one horse’s neck. “Finish this up, will you?” he asked Jackson, already moving toward the dog. If the crazy thing had a skunk cornered they’d all pay for it.
Stafford was almost to the edge of the thick bush when a noise caught his attention above the barking. It was faint, and subtle, but the kind of sound that a man never forgets once he hears it. Drawing his gun, Stafford scanned the ground cautiously, meticulously. Rattlers were shady and had the ability to blend in to their surroundings like no other creature.
“Get out of here, Polly,” he hissed, kicking dirt to scare the dog aside. It didn’t help. She started barking faster, louder. A movement near the roots of the bush proved it was a snake, shaking the buttons on its tail. The head was hidden and Stafford eased his way around the bush. He saw it then, arched up and drawn back, ready to strike.
Stafford fired.
The bullet hit its mark. The snake flew backward into the bush. At the same time, a scream sounded and Stafford saw little more than a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He took a step, rounded the bush fully and stopped.
Hands over her ears, flat on her stomach with her skirts up around her waist and her bloomers around her ankles, lay Marie. It had to be her. She was the only woman for miles around, and that was about the cutest bare bottom he’d ever seen. So lily white, round and somewhat plump, he had a heck of a time pulling his eyes off it.
Screeching and thuds said the children were approaching so he holstered his gun and bent down, taking her arms to haul her to her feet. “Come on.”
Wrestling against his hold, she demanded, “Why were you shooting at me?”
He grasped her more firmly and twisted her about. “I wasn’t shooting at you. Now pull up your bloomers before the kids see you.”
Her eyes grew as round as dish plates and her face turned redder than last night’s sunset. “Ooh!” She threw into a fit. Mouth sputtering and arms flaying so out of control she couldn’t stand.
He hoisted her to her feet. “Pull up your bloomers,” he repeated and then spun around, blocking her from view of the children racing around the bush.
“What did you shoot?” asked Terrance, the oldest and first to arrive.
“A rattler,” Stafford answered, pointing toward the bush. “Stand back, I gotta make sure it’s dead. Keep your brothers and sisters back, too.”
Terrance held out his arms, stopping the others from coming any closer as they arrived, and Stafford spun back around to check on Marie. The expression on her face was pure mortification. Could be the gunshot or the snake, but he was putting his money on the fact he’d caught her with her bloomers down, and it took all he had not to chuckle. “You all right?” he asked, tongue in cheek.
She nodded.
He picked up a stick and used it to poke at the snake before hooking it. Dead, it hung limply over the stick, and a tiny quiver inched up his spine as he pulled it clear of the foliage. It was a good-size rattler. Pushing four feet or more.
“I thought you said you shot a rabbit,” Terrance said. “That’s not a rabbit, it’s a snake.”
“It’s a rattlesnake,” Stafford explained. “They’re called rattlers because of the sound they make.”
The children oohed and aahed but it was the shuddering “Oh,” coming from behind him that had him twisting around. Marie’s face had about as much color as a cloud, and she appeared to be drooping before his eyes.
Stafford dropped the snake and caught her elbow. She slouched, but didn’t go all the way down. “Here,” he said, “sit down.”
She half nodded and half shook her head at the same time. “No, I’m all right. I don’t need to sit down.” The hold she had on his arm tightened. “Just give me a second to catch my breath.”
An odd sensation ticked inside him. She had guts, he had to give her that. Plenty of women, men, too, might have fainted dead away to see the size of the snake that had almost sunk its fangs into her backside.
“She didn’t get bit, did she?” Jackson asked, squeezing between the bush and the children to pick up the stick holding the snake.
Stafford waited for her to answer. Rattlers usually only bit once, because as soon as they sank their fangs in they held on and started pumping venom.
“No,” she said weakly. “I wasn’t bitten.”
“Good thing,” Jackson answered. “A rattler’s bite can be deadly.”
Her hold increased and Stafford experienced a bout of frustration at the Swede for being so insensitive. Not that he’d been overly sensitive to her during the trip, but that was different. At least, in his mind it was.
“Gotta lance open the wound,” the Swede went on. “Bleed out the poison as soon as possible and the person still might not make it.”
For a split second Stafford’s mind saw her backside again, and he cringed inwardly at how much damage that snake could have done.
“Whatcha gonna do with that?” Terrance asked, nodding toward the snake.
“Well, we could have snake stew for supper,” Jackson answered.
Marie made a quiet wheezing sound as she drew in air. She also straightened her stance and didn’t lean so hard against him. Stafford watched her closely as she shook her head. It was almost as if he could see her gumption returning.
“We will not be eating that,” she said sternly. “Not in a stew or any other way you might consider preparing it.”
Jackson nodded. “Most folks don’t take to eating them very well. I’ll get rid of it.” The man laid the snake on the ground and pulled a knife from his boot. “Just gonna cut off the rattles.”
“Why?” Terrance asked.
“’Cause that’s what you do,” Jackson said. “Look here.” He waved for the children to step closer. “Each one of these buttons, that’s what they’re called on his tail, was formed when it shed its skin. By counting the buttons, you can guess how old the snake might be.”
The children had gathered close, even the girls, and Stafford took a couple of steps backward, taking Marie with him. “You doing all right now?”
Her gumption may have returned, but there was something else about her that caught him off guard. She looked all soft and feminine, especially her big doe eyes.
“Yes, thank you,” she said softly.
“Thank your little dog, there,” he said roughly, not too willing to accept her gratitude. “If she hadn’t started barking, you may have gotten bit.”
Her cheeks turned bright pink. “I threw a pebble at her, trying to hush her up.”
“That couldn’t have been what riled up the snake,” he said, setting her arm loose and stepping away. “They usually skedaddle when it comes to things bigger than them.”
Another shudder of sorts was creeping its way up his spine. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he sensed it had something to do with standing this close to Marie, touching her, whispering. Those were not things he did.
“Well, thank you, and Polly, for coming to my rescue,” she said.
“There was no rescuing involved,” he clarified.
She was wringing her hands and cringing slightly, her face still flushed. He knew why a moment later.
“Mr. Burleson, about...about the position—”
Now that he could laugh at. “No one will ever know I saw your bare bottom, Marie.”
The exact look of mortification he’d seen on her face earlier reappeared. Too bad he hadn’t bet on the cause of it—he’d have won. At that moment, he chose to take it one step further. “That is, if you call me Stafford. I’d say the formality of Mr. Burleson would just be a waste now. Considering what I saw and all.”
Her hiss, along with the snap in those brown eyes told him she was back one hundred percent, and that was a good thing. So much so, he laughed, tipped his hat, and with a wink, turned around. “We’re wasting daylight,” he shouted, once again feeling a genuine skip in his step.
She caught up with him before he made it to the team. “Mr. Burleson—”
One look had her pinching her lips together.
“Stafford.”
He nodded. It really didn’t mean that much, other than that he’d won, and he liked being a winner.
Some of the steam left her as she bowed her head slightly. “I appreciate your discretion,” she huffed and then turned. “Children!”
He laughed, not caring that she heard and cast a very unfavorable look his way.
It didn’t take long before they were loaded up and heading west again. Marie was on the seat beside him again today, and that played a bit of havoc with Stafford’s insides. It hadn’t yesterday and there was no reason for it to this morning, but it did, and try as he might, ignoring it was impossible. Just as it was impossible to ignore how, every so often, his mind flashed back to the image of the lily-white flesh she was now sitting on. That was bound to affect a man. Any man.
“Mr. Burleson?”
“Yes, Samuel?” he answered, thankful he now knew the children’s names. The younger two, Charles and Weston, looked exactly alike and it wasn’t until they spoke that he knew who was who. Weston had the lisp, Charlie didn’t. Weston talked more than Charlie did, too. Probably because Charlie was always chewing on the collar of his shirt. It was pretty amazing how much he’d discovered about these kids in such a short time.
“You’re really a cowboy aren’t you?” Samuel asked.
“Well, I expect I am,” Stafford answered. He hadn’t thought of it much, but had to admit he liked who he was, now. A cowboy was as fitting a word as any, and it beat the heck out of being a cotton farmer. Not that he’d ever have been one of those. Sterling had inherited his father’s farm. That’s how it was with the oldest. The second son had to forge out on his own, make his own way in life. Which fit him just fine.
“Can I call you Stafford?” Samuel asked. “It sounds a lot more like a cowboy than Mr. Burleson, don’t you think?”
Marie opened her mouth, but he shook his head and grinned. Giving the boy a nod, he agreed. “Sure, you can call me Stafford.”
“Are there a lot of rattlers in these parts, Stafford?” the child then asked.
Aw, the real question. “Enough,” he answered, noting how Marie was staring at him. Making light of the truth might ease her anxiety, but it wouldn’t do any of them any good. “Rattlesnakes don’t like humans and tend to shy away, but if you startle one, or corner him, he’ll strike. There’s no doubt about that.”
“If you shoot another one, can I have the buttons off it?” Samuel asked.
Jackson had given the rattle he’d cut off to Terrance, who’d spent the last half hour making sure everyone in the wagon didn’t jostle about and break his new treasure.
“Yes,” Stafford answered, figuring that was fair. Then, just to encourage Terrance to share his bounty, he said, “Let me see that rattle.”
The oldest boy shouldered into the opening beside his brother. “Jackson says it’s fragile. That means it’ll break easy.”
“That’s what it means, all right,” Stafford said as he held the reins toward Marie. “Hold these.”
* * *
Still humiliated, Marie shook her head. Never, ever, had she been so embarrassed in her life. It would help if Stafford—as she was now forced to call him—didn’t find such humor in it all. He’d been grinning ever since he’d shot that snake. Every time she glanced his way, she could tell he was remembering what he’d seen, almost as if he’d pressed the image in a book the way one would a flower, to take it out and look at it every so often.
“If you’re going to live out here, Marie,” he said, thrusting the reins toward her, “you’ll need to learn to drive a wagon. Now take the reins. I’m right here, nothing’s going to happen.”
It would help, too, if he wasn’t so, well, right, and so bull-headed about everything. And if he hadn’t come to her rescue as he had. Swallowing a growl, she took the reins.
“That’s it,” he said. “Just hold them loosely. You don’t have to do anything. The horses know to follow the road.”
If she hadn’t just been found with her bottom as bare as an infant’s, she might have been nervous to drive a wagon of this size—of any size—but right now she wasn’t going to give Stafford anything else to laugh about. Consequently, she did as instructed, telling herself she could drive a wagon twice this size, and snuck a peek as he took the snake’s tail from Terrance.
“There’s twelve buttons,” Terrance said.
“I see that,” Stafford answered.
“Does that mean that snake was twelve years old?” Samuel asked.
“No,” Stafford answered.
Marie couldn’t help but relax a bit and appreciate how comfortable the children had become around Stafford. Yesterday, she’d feared the opposite, that he might have terrorized them. It appeared the children simply understood he wouldn’t tolerate misbehaving, and therefore they’d conducted themselves remarkably well ever since. In some ways she’d grown more comfortable around him, too, before the snake.
Actually, he’d probably saved her life this morning. Something she did need to be grateful for. Men had always made her nervous. Before this trip west, she’d never had to deal with them, and still wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it. Stafford was different, though. He was certainly stubborn and demanding, but, especially when it came to the children, she saw a softer side to him. One she couldn’t help but wonder about. Even admire—just the tiniest bit.
“These rattles are about as breakable as our fingernails,” he was telling the children, “and you know how easy it is to break one of them.” He shifted and held the snake’s tail in front of the boys. “See this bottom button? It’s called the nub. One that’s never been broken is smooth and round, but this one, see how it’s kind of pointed and split?”
When the boys nodded, he continued, “That means this rattle’s been broken.”
“So it was older than twelve?” Terrance asked, clearly enthralled.
Marie could no longer hold back her smile. Teaching was an integral part of being a nursemaid, and whether Stafford knew it or not, he was providing the boys a lesson in animal science.
“No. There’s no real way of guessing how old that snake was. Depending on the climate, how much it’s eaten and how much it’s grown, a snake sheds its skin several times a year. The only thing that’s for sure is the more buttons, the bigger the snake.”
Stafford glanced her way. He was smiling and lifted a brow as he asked, “Do you know what that means?”
Marie refrained from asking what, knowing the boys would, and they did.
“The bigger the snake, the farther away you want to stay,” Stafford answered his own question.
The humor in his eyes tickled her insides, making her want to giggle, but she held it in. Terrance and Samuel, though, laughed aloud. Stafford reached below the seat then, and pulled out a box. He lifted the lid and, after searching a bit, closed it and pushed the box back under the seat. Handing a piece of cloth to Terrance, he said, “Here. This is just a rag for greasing the wagon hubs, but it’ll work. When you’re done admiring your rattle, tie it up in this and then tie the rag to a brace bar holding up the canvas. That way you won’t have to worry about your brothers and sisters breaking it.”
“Thanks, Stafford, I will.” Terrance said, taking both the rattle and the rag.
The boys sat down, still guessing the age of the snake and Marie, a bit tongue-tied at the moment over how thoughtful and caring Stafford was being, had forgotten all about the reins in her hands until he spoke.
“You’re doing a good job.”
“Oh, here,” she said, handing over the reins. She wasn’t usually addlepated and it was a bit disconcerting that he made her feel as if she was. The way she was thinking about his looks was a bit distressing, too. How when he smiled the lines around his eyes deepened, enhancing his handsomeness. Thoughts like that should not be crossing her mind. She was a nursemaid, first and foremost. The children and their safety should control her thoughts at all times.
Not taking the reins, Stafford shook his head. “No, you’re doing a good job.” Leaning toward her, he then added, “Actually, let me show you how to lace the reins through your fingers, so you’ll have more control.”
One at a time, he wove the reins through her fingers. The leather was smooth and warm; however, quite unexpectedly, it was the touch of his skin on hers that caused her hands to burn and tremble.
“You’ll want to wear gloves when driving, if at all possible,” he said. “The leather can chafe the skin, like a rope burn.”
She nodded, not exactly sure why. Other than that she was feeling too out of breath to speak. Yesterday, sitting next to him had been no different than riding beside a stranger in a coach, or standing next to one in line somewhere, yet today, a new awareness had awakened inside her. One she’d never experienced. He was still a stranger—a somewhat overbearing one whom she really didn’t like very much—and sitting next to him shouldn’t be any different. But it was. Although she couldn’t say exactly how or why, perhaps because she was putting too much thought into it. She was known for that. Miss Wentworth had said one of her best attributes was how she could concentrate on a problem and ultimately come up with the best choice.
“Just curve this finger a bit,” Stafford said, forcing her finger to bend. “See how it tugs on that rein? And if you bend this one—” he maneuvered a finger on the other hand “—that rein moves. It doesn’t take much, and is pretty easy when the road is this smooth. You’ll soon learn that the rougher the road, the more control you’ll need over the horses.”
Marie was listening, but it was difficult to concentrate with him holding her hands as he was, and with the way he smelled. It was pleasant, spicy, and made the air snag in her chest. Telling herself not to think of such things didn’t help at all.
Attempting to focus all her thoughts on the children proved to be impossible, as well. But perhaps that was her way out. She could tell Stafford that watching over six children would take all her time and, therefore, she most assuredly would not need to learn to drive a wagon. No matter where they lived she had lessons to teach—reading and spelling, geography and grammar, philosophy, civil government and a smattering of other subjects, unless of course there was a school within walking distance for the older ones to attend. It would be good for them to learn social graces by interacting with other children their age.
“You got it.”
It was a moment before Marie realized he was speaking of driving the team. It had worked. Focusing on the children, what she’d need to do, had pulled her mind off him.
“You’re a quick learner,” he added with a nod.
A surprising jolt of happiness flashed inside her. “Thank you,” she said. “I was always quick at school. Actually Miss Wentworth said I may have been her best student ever. She said I had a natural ability.” Heat rose upon her cheeks. She was proud of her accomplishments, but hadn’t meant to sound so boastful. A part of her just wanted him to know she wasn’t a simpleton. Mainly because, even thinking of the children, the episode with the snake was still causing a good amount of mortification to fester inside her. Miss Wentworth would be appalled, too, to learn she’d let a man see her bare backside.
“I see,” he said. “And who is Miss Wentworth?”
Not being from Chicago, it made sense he would never have heard of Opal Wentworth. “She owns the Chicago School of Domestic Labor. Her training classes in all positions are renowned. It’s close to impossible to obtain a position without a certificate of completion within the city.”
He was looking at her somewhat curiously, as if she’d said something he didn’t quite believe.
“It’s true,” she said. “A certificate from Miss Wentworth’s opens doors.” A different sense overcame her, one of achievement, perhaps. It could be because she’d never driven a wagon before and was quite proud of herself for learning so quickly, or because she had graduated at the top of her class.
Then again, it could be because of something entirely different. She’d never been around a man so much before, and it was rather bewildering. All of her placements had been with married couples, but it had been the wives who’d managed the household help, including her.
Glancing forward, she attempted to keep her thoughts on their conversation. “Miss Wentworth said I was the best nursemaid she’d ever had the pleasure to train.”
“You don’t say,” he said.
She nodded. Perhaps if she convinced him of her nursemaid abilities, he could convince Mick Wagner that hiring her would be more beneficial than marrying her. She’d always believed earning a wage would be far more pleasurable than getting married. No matter what Sarah had suggested. “Yes,” Marie said proudly. “The best nursemaid ever.”
Several hours later her confidence was waning. The second day on the trail was better than the first, in many ways, but in others it was worse. The sun was boiling hot today. Sweat poured down Marie’s back and her temples throbbed. Stafford had taken the reins from her long before her arms had started to ache, but they did so now. Her entire body hurt from the endless bouncing, and she had to wonder if the heat and travels were getting to Stafford, too.
He kept taking off his hat and wiping at the sweat streaming down his forehead, and when someone asked for a drink of water, he never questioned it, just handed over the canteen.
The heat was taking a toll on the children, too. Their little faces were red and they drooped in the back of the wagon like a half dozen dandelions plucked from the ground. Marie’s confidence in coming up with a plan to ease their plight had plummeted. There was nothing she could do or offer that would relieve the heat.
At her suggestion, they’d all walked for a while, but that had been worse. At least beneath the canopy of the wagon the children were shielded from the glare of the sun.
“There’s a creek up ahead,” Stafford said, interrupting her thoughts. “We’ll stop there to water the animals and ourselves.”
A wave of thankfulness crashed over her. “That will be nice. This heat is deplorable.”
He frowned, but nodded.
Used to explaining the definition of words, she started, “Deplorable means—”
“I know what it means.”
Marie chose to ignore the bite in his tone. The heat was taxing, but she sensed it was more than the temperature getting to him. He’d turned quiet some time ago, almost brooding. It was just as well. His silence, that was. They’d conversed enough. While showing her how to drive the team, he’d talked about being little and how his father had taught him how to drive. He also shared that he was from Mississippi, where his family still lived. Then he’d started asking about her family, at which point she’d changed the subject and kept changing it every time he tried to bring it back up.
If necessary, she’d explain her history to Mick Wagner, but not to anyone else. There was no need to, and for her, it was better off left buried deep inside. She didn’t like how memories could befuddle a person’s mind, and the thought of telling him she’d been returned, twice, to the orphanage, made her stomach hurt. Especially after he’d told her about his family. That’s all she’d ever wanted. To be part of a family. She’d gotten that when the Meekers had hired her, and she wouldn’t give it up.
First one, then the other horse nickered, and Marie glanced around, but saw nothing but brown grass.
“They smell the water,” Stafford said. “It’s just over the hill.”
The next few minutes seemed to take hours, the hill they ambled up the tallest ever, but when they crested the peak and she saw the sparkling creek trailing along the floor of the valley below, the downward trek became endless. The children had moved to the front opening of the wagon, vying for a spot to gaze at the water with as much longing as the horses showed by their increased speed.
As the horses trudged closer, the creek grew larger and a touch of anxiety rose up to quell her excitement. The road they were on entered the water on one side and appeared again on the other side. She shivered slightly.
“There’s no bridge.”
“No, there’s not,” Stafford agreed. “But the water isn’t deep. We can cross safely this time of year. Springtime is a different story.”
She had no choice but to trust him, which actually was becoming easier and easier.
A chorus of voices over her shoulder asked if they could get wet, and as the wagons rolled to a stop a short distance from the water, Stafford answered, “Yes.” He then turned to her as he set the brake. “We’re going to unhitch the teams, let them cool off a bit. You and the children can go upstream a distance and cool off yourselves. Just not too far.”
Climbing on and off the wagon had grown a bit easier, too, now that she knew exactly where to step. Marie was down in no time and lifting the twins out of the back while the older children climbed out themselves.
“Can we get wet, like Stafford said?” Samuel asked hopefully.
She should have insisted the children continue to call him Mr. Burleson. Allowing them to call him Stafford was inappropriate, but in truth, she didn’t have the wherewithal to say a whole lot right now. She’d never been so hot and uncomfortable in her life.
“Yes,” she said. “But take your shoes off.”
They took off running and Marie didn’t have the heart to call them back, make them wait for her. So, instead, she ran, too. The water was crystal clear, and she could easily see the rocky bottom. Wasting no more time than the children, she removed her shoes and stockings, and entered the creek beside them, sighing at the heavenly coolness the water offered.
She held her skirt up, letting the water splash about her ankles, and kept vigilant eyes on the children as they eagerly ventured farther in. She’d never learned to swim, so the water made her nervous, but it was shallow, only up to the twins’ waists, and they were enjoying the experience wholeheartedly, as were the others.
It wasn’t long before a whoop sounded and Mr. Jackson flew past her like a wild man. Arms out, he threw himself face-first into the water and sank below, only to pop up moments later, laughing from deep in his lungs.
Samuel instantly copied the man’s actions, and that had everyone laughing all over again.
A hand caught hers and she twisted, ready to pull it away, for the heat was intense.
“Come on,” Stafford said, tugging slightly.
“No, this is deep enough,” she insisted.
“It’s barely up to your knees at the deepest point.” With his free hand, he pointed toward Mr. Jackson. “He’s sitting on the bottom and it’s not up to his shoulders.”
“He’s a tall man,” she explained.
Stafford laughed and let go of her hand, which left a sense of loneliness swirling around her. He was gone in an instant, out in the middle with all of the children and Mr. Jackson, splashing up tidal wave after tidal wave.
The air left Marie’s lungs slowly. She shouldn’t be staring, but Stafford had taken his shirt off. So had Mr. Jackson, but her eyes weren’t drawn to the other man as they were to Stafford. Dark hair covered his chest, and his shoulders and arms bulged. Muscles. She’d seen pictures of the male form in her studies, but goodness, none of those drawings had looked this...real.
Marie glanced away, downstream to where the horses stood in the water, drinking their fill, but that didn’t hold her attention. When she turned back, her gaze caught Stafford’s.
“Come on,” he said again, waving a hand as he now sat on the bottom with water swirling around his burly chest. “It feels great.”
The children joined in with his invitation, waving and begging her to join them. She could say no to him, but not to them. Dropping her skirt, for she couldn’t hoist it any higher, she edged toward the clapping and squeals.
And splashing. Water was flying in all directions, and it did feel wonderful. Then, all of a sudden, Marie went down. Though the water was shallow, she was completely submerged, her back thumping off the rocky creek bed.
Chapter Four (#ulink_b51c7701-1e47-5374-83dd-25b54610f64e)
Marie came up as quickly as she’d gone down, coughing, but it wasn’t until Stafford saw the laughter in her eyes that he let the air out of his chest. He tore his eyes away, a bit disgusted he’d been holding his breath. People could drown in just about any amount of water, he understood that, but there were enough of them around to prevent that. What irritated him was how every time he caught a glimpse of her air snagged in the middle of his chest and sat there until it burned.
She was a looker, he could admit that, and what he’d seen this morning kept flashing in his mind like heat lightning—a sudden flash that was nothing but an illusion.
He hadn’t been drawn in by looks in ages. Frustrated in ways he hadn’t been in years, either, he ducked beneath the water again and held his breath until his lungs had a reason to burn. When he surfaced, he stood and made his way to the shore. He’d said it before and thought it again while seeing her running to the stream with the children, but had to repeat it to himself once more. Marie looked like the kids’ older sister, barely more than a child herself.
It didn’t help. She was a woman. An attractive one who took her job seriously. He was also willing to admit, she did it well. Not one of those kids could make a peep without her responding immediately, and right now they were gathered around her as if she was the queen bee.
Stafford stepped out of the water and bent forward to shake the water from his hair before he made his way over to where he’d left his shirt, boots, socks and hat. Right next to hers. Her little bonnet lay there, too, and he ran a hand over it, testing the thickness of the fabric. Just as he’d suspected, it was nothing more than thin cotton that didn’t offer much relief from the sun. Not on a day like this.
He sat to pull on his socks and boots, and his gaze locked onto the game of water tag happening in the stream. He watched as Marie caught both twins, one in each arm, and planted kisses on their wet heads before she let them loose and chased after the two girls.
A smile tugged at his lips, and he let it form. He remembered days like this. When it was too hot to do much else, his family would head to the river and spend the day frolicking in the water. It had been fun, and something he hadn’t thought of in a long time. Crazy as it was, he felt a touch homesick.
Boots on, Stafford stood and shrugged into his shirt before he made his way to the wagons where he checked hubs and axels and anything else he could think of to keep his mind from wandering deeper down memory lane. He was trying, too, to keep his thoughts off Marie. In reality, that is what he should be thinking about, figuring out what she wanted with Mick, but when he did let her into his mind, Mick didn’t accompany her.
“I feel like a new man,” Jackson said, leading two of the horses out of the water.
“It felt good,” Stafford agreed.
“Good for those kids, too,” the other man said, handing over the reins. “I know how hard it is keeping them cooped up in a wagon.”
“You do?”
Jackson, already heading back to gather the other team, paused with his gaze on the group still splashing about. “Yeah. I got two boys, five and nine, we moved out here from Wisconsin last year. That was a long trip.”
Stafford hadn’t met the man prior to hiring him and figured it made sense, the man having kids, given the way he’d taken to Marie’s bunch so readily.
“My wife’s name is Marie, too.” Jackson laughed then. “Maybe it’s the name. Marie. I can’t say, but mine is the best wife ever. She’s a dream come true, and there’s few prettier. Although that one comes close.”
Stafford ignored the feelings nettling inside him, almost as if he didn’t want other men looking at Marie and commenting on how pretty she was. He’d felt that way once, about Francine, and was never going to do that to himself again.
Jackson retrieved the other horses, and as soon as the man approached, Stafford, still trying to gain control of his mind, asked, “What are your sons’ names?”
“Jack is the oldest and Henry the youngest.”
“Jack Jackson?” Stafford couldn’t help but ask, glad to have something his mind could snatch up. When they’d been introduced, the man had simply said to call him Jackson.
“No.” The other man laughed as he started hitching his team to the freight wagon. “Jackson’s just the name I go by. My real name is William Borgeson.”
Buckling harnesses, Stafford asked, “How do you get Jackson out of that?”
“My folks had nine girls before I came along. My father’s name was Jack, so the entire town took to calling me Jack’s son. It stuck. I was about ten before I learned my real name was William.”
“That’s an interesting story.”
The female voice, all soft and tender, caught Stafford so off guard he lost his hold on the drawbar yoke of the singletree harness, which promptly fell and smashed the big toe on his left foot. He almost cursed. The expletive didn’t leave his lips because his breath had caught again, sat there in his chest as though it didn’t have anything better to do than sting as sharply as his toe.
Marie was wet from top to bottom and was finger-combing her long hair over one shoulder. Her hands slid all the way to the ends, which hung near her waist, and her wet dress—once a pale blue, now much darker—and white pinafore clung to her in ways dresses shouldn’t cling. Not while he was looking, anyway.
“Thank you, Miss,” Jackson answered, hitching the yoke to the harness of his team. “Now that my father has passed on, the name has a bit more meaning for me, and it’s pretty much the only thing I answer to.” Chuckling he added, “Other than to my wife. She can call me anything she wants and I come a-running.”
Toe throbbing and lungs burning, Stafford wasn’t in any mood to hear how happily married the other man was, no matter how he got his name. He didn’t want to think of Marie being a wife, either, not to anyone. It would be nice, though, if his partner was here right about now. Then Stafford could wash his hands of this entire mess and not have to sit beside Marie for the next several hours.
“Get the kids loaded up,” he said, gruffly. “With any luck, we’ll be home before dark.”
Luck, it appeared, had left him so far behind he might never see it again. A couple of hours later, the freight wagon cracked a hub, and though they got it fixed, it was too late to take off again, even though he was so close to home he might be able to see it if they were atop a hill instead of in another river valley. And sitting next to Marie had been even more disagreeable than he’d imagined. This time, to keep the children occupied, with a sweet, perfect voice, she’d sung songs with them. Jaunty and silly tunes that had them all laughing and encouraging him to join in.
He hadn’t, of course, and he’d bitten his lip so many times to keep from grinning there probably wasn’t any skin left on his bottom one. His sister Camellia had been the singer in his family. She was married now, living down by Galveston, and he couldn’t help but wonder how she was doing.
It seemed everything had him thinking about his family, his home, and the bottom line was he didn’t like it. He’d rid himself of those memories at the same time he’d erased the ones of Francine and how she’d chosen Sterling over him. For ten years he’d gotten along fine without those reminiscences and didn’t need them back. The few times he’d seen his family since leaving home, he’d made new memories. They were enough.
Furthermore, it seemed to him that while he and Jackson had been working on the hub, Marie could have been gathering wood, lighting a fire and rustling up something for supper—the wagon was full of food. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d led the kids into the shade and sat there reading to them and watching as they wrote on their slates. Schooling was fine, but when there was work to be done, that’s what should come first.
“Terrance,” Stafford yelled as he replaced the tools in the box beneath the wagon seat. “You and Samuel gather some wood for a fire.”
The boys instantly jumped to follow his orders, but Marie stood, too, and took Terrance by the arm. Stafford was too far away to hear what she said, however, the way both Terrance and Samuel bowed their heads he caught the gist of it.
Sitting next to her for hours on end—including those while her hair and clothes dried, filling the hot air that had circled around him with a flowery scent—his mind bringing up memories as if it was turning the pages of an old book, not to mention the broken hub and the heat, had taken their toll. Usually a tolerant man—well somewhat tolerant—he couldn’t put up with anything else. Shoving the box back in place he marched toward the trees.
She met him at the fringe of the shade. “I will not allow—”
His growl caused her to pause, but not for long.
After taking a breath she continued. “Have you forgotten what happened this morning?” she asked, red faced and snippy. “The snake?”
He’d be dead in his grave and still remembering everything about the snake incident. Taking out his gun, he stepped around the children and fired all six bullets into the underbrush. He spun around as the echoes were still bouncing. The two girls were peeking out from behind Marie with their hands over their ears, while the boys were clapping and grinning.
Stafford nodded to them before he lifted his gaze to her. “If there were any snakes, they’re hightailing it for safer ground now.” He holstered his gun. “Terrance, you and Samuel gather some wood.”
The boys looked up at Marie. Stafford noticed that out of the corner of his eyes. The rest of his gaze was locked on hers in a rather steely battle. Her glare didn’t waver, therefore, he narrowed his eyes and gave her a good hard stare.
It took a moment or two, but eventually, with a slow lowering of those long lashes, she glanced toward the two waiting boys. “Stay together and watch for snakes.”
“Yes’um,” they agreed, flying around him.
While Stafford took a moment to breathe—yes, he’d been holding his breath again—Marie sent the other children off toward the wagons with a few gentle words before her glare returned to him.
“That was not necessary,” she seethed between clenched teeth.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “If you’d have thought to gather firewood, I wouldn’t have found it necessary to ask.”
A frown flashed upon her brows. “Thought to gather firewood? Why would I have thought of that?”
“To build a fire?” he asked mockingly.
“For what? It’s still a hundred degrees out. No one’s cold.”
She couldn’t possibly be this dense. “To cook on?” he asked, half wondering if it really was a question.
Pausing, as if gathering her thoughts, she said, “Oh.”
“You do know what that is?” he asked. “Cooking?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
“Then why didn’t you?” he asked as she started walking toward the wagons. Stafford hadn’t completely expected her to cook, yet it seemed to him that most women would have. Catching up to her, he asked, “Why didn’t you prepare supper while we fixed the wagon?”
She stopped and hands on her hips, glared at him again. “Because I am a nursemaid, Mr. Burleson, not a cook.”
He didn’t miss the emphasis she put on his name. “So?”
“So, nursemaids don’t cook.”
Realization clicked inside his head. Maybe luck was on his side. “Don’t or can’t?”
She continued to glare.
“I thought you graduated at the top of your class.”
“I did. Nursemaid classes.”
“And feeding children isn’t part of taking care of them?” He shook his head then, even as another question formed. “Who do you think will be cooking for the children once we arrive at my—M-Mick’s house?”
“The cook, of course.”
Stafford took great pleasure in stating, “Mick doesn’t have a cook.”
Her expression was a cross between shock and horror. “He doesn’t?”
“Nope.” Having hot meals waiting for him at home was just one of the many things Mick proclaimed a wife would do, and knowing that wasn’t about to happen had Stafford’s mood growing more cheerful by the second.
“Who cooks for him?”
“He cooks for himself.” Seeing her frown deepening had Stafford adding, “Once in a while he eats over at my place.”
“Your place?”
He nodded.
“I thought you said—” She stopped to square her shoulders. “Don’t you live with Mick—Mr. Wagner?”
Shoot, he’d forgotten about that. Then he’d been too happy to see her look of shock to explain everything fully. “We live on the same ranch, in different houses.”
Frowning, she said, “Oh,” and then asked, “Who cooks for you?”
The older boys had brought an armload of wood to Jackson, who was busy digging a fire hole, and Stafford started walking that way. “Me.”
Marie was certain her stomach had landed on the ground near her heels. Her entire being sagged near there, too. No cook? That possibility had never occurred to her. Everyone had a cook. Everyone she’d ever worked for, anyway. Miss Wentworth had assured her it would be that way. Nursemaids weren’t expected to cook.
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Lauri Robinson
One mail-order bride in need of rescue! All the rigorous training in the world could not have prepared nursemaid Marie Hall for trailing the wilds of Dakota with six orphans. Especially when her ingenious plan—to pose as the mail-order bride of the children’s next of kin—leads Marie to the wrong cowboy! Proud and stubborn, Stafford Burleson is everything Marie’s been taught to avoid. But with her fate and that of the children in his capable hands, Marie soon feels there’s something incredibly right about this rugged rancher and his brooding charm.... “A delightful western…humor, realism and sweet emotion.” —RT Book Reviews on Inheriting a Bride
“He’s not at the ranch, either,” Mr. Burleson said then.
“Mr. Wagner?” she asked, even though she knew that was exactly who Stafford Burleson meant.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
He shrugged. “Texas. Mexico.”
Marie couldn’t deny a quick flash of relief as it washed over her. Maybe she wouldn’t have to face the marriage issue right away. She and the children could get settled in and …
“For how long?” she asked.
His gaze never left the road. “Can’t rightly say. Could be next spring before he gets back.”
“Next spring?”
Panic overtook any sense of relief. Her funds were almost gone. The children would starve to death by then, unless … She shivered at the thought, but unfortunately Stafford was her only hope.
Something in his eyes, the way they shimmered, had her mouth going dry, her nerves tingling as though a storm was approaching. Maybe there was another option.
“Who lives at Mr. Wagner’s ranch in his absence?”
“Me.”
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_340b8fc0-bb0c-5240-b46e-6d7146554024)
Welcome to THE WRONG COWBOY. If any of you have read THE COWBOY WHO CAUGHT HER EYE, Marie was the woman on the train with all the children. From the moment I typed that minor reference I knew I had to write her story.
In doing so, I was also provided with the opportunity to incorporate an inanimate object that used to drive me crazy into one of my books. Our previous home had a wood stove that I could build a fire in blindfolded. Then we moved into this house and I encountered the stove from—well, you know … That stove and I battled … I have a scar from when the door mysteriously swung shut, hitting me on the head. Mysteriously because I was the only one at home. I am glad to say that stove never got the better of me—not completely—before we replaced it years ago.
Unfortunately the stove Marie encounters does best her—but everything happens for a reason.
I hope you enjoy meeting Marie, Stafford and all the children who eventually provide Marie with the family she’s always wanted.
The Wrong
Cowboy
Lauri Robinson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEDICATION (#ulink_ea1e0d97-7281-5a90-a473-f626ede8151f)
To my wonderful friend Jean.
Thanks for the lunch dates, the brainstorming, and the research trips.
LAURI ROBINSON’s chosen genre to write is Western historical romance. When asked why, she says, ‘Because I know I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to grow up and marry Little Joe Cartwright.’
With a degree in early childhood education, Lauri has spent decades working in the non-profit field and claims once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after romance novels have always been a form of stress relief. When her husband suggested she write one she took the challenge, and has loved every minute of the journey.
Lauri lives in rural Minnesota, where she and her husband spend every spare moment with their three grown sons and four grandchildren. She works part-time, volunteers for several organisations, and is a diehard Elvis and NASCAR fan. Her favourite getaway location is the woods of northern Minnesota, on the land homesteaded by her great-grandfather.
Contents
Cover (#ud4461449-121b-5db1-be15-f22cfd5e69c1)
Introduction (#ua19ba4bf-3cb8-5a5f-b64d-cb9847f8eb4b)
AUTHOR NOTE (#u660c4811-8734-5135-b216-6dda1f1c925b)
Title Page (#u6e394fec-658a-5b05-aa3b-624160781069)
DEDICATION (#u8d7f04d1-5ff2-5a4a-ab0b-48cda26e21ce)
About the Author (#u03f9b370-74fe-5ad0-bb31-5bc70bf41c10)
Chapter One (#u7e695be2-5317-5f97-b6d0-3a4a62a0eec0)
Chapter Two (#ubf050477-9697-5e7d-bd5c-850296a09489)
Chapter Three (#u09ccbbd9-3abd-5b53-821c-176adca3e7dd)
Chapter Four (#u1654aa51-8c26-5e55-9411-be7a9dd9e28c)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_7c61e2c2-6e24-580f-94a6-7b3af5073ab0)
August, 1884, Dakota Territory
Stafford Burleson prided himself on a few things—he wasn’t a quitter, his cooking wasn’t all bad, he was a mighty fine carpenter and he was quick on his feet. His wits were good, too. He was known for coming up with a plan at a dead run, yet right now he found himself dumbfounded. “What?”
“Mick’s mail-order bride is waiting for him at the hotel in Huron.” Walt Darter’s scratchy voice repeating exactly what he’d said a moment ago made about as much sense the second time around as it had the first.
This time Stafford added a few more words to his question. “What are you talking about?” He set his cup down and dug his fingers into hair that sorely needed a good cutting. His scalp had started to tingle and he scratched at it. Eerily. “Mick didn’t order a bride.”
“That’s not what she says.” Walt couldn’t have looked more stone-cold serious if he’d been standing before a judge and jury.
“Who?”
“Miss Marie Hall.” The old man’s face was sunburned from years of riding in the summer sun, and as he said her name a grin formed and his chest puffed with pride as if he’d just announced he’d found a goose that laid golden eggs.
The woman’s name was completely unknown and Stafford pondered that. No one from Huron had been out this way for several months. Not that it was expected. The little town of Merryville had sprung up around the people who chose to stay behind when the railroad camp packed up to follow the tracks westward. There weren’t too many businesses there yet, but he and Mick now bought their supplies in Merryville. It was only a few miles north of their land, and the railroad company had promised that, when the line was done, a depot would be built in the settlement, which meant cattle could be shipped and received there. It was what he and Mick had predicted would happen when they settled on their tracts of land and formed a partnership for the Dakota Cattle Company.
Their plan, to build one of the largest cattle operations in the north, was falling into place more smoothly than the railroad line. Although Stafford would be the first to admit—and he often did—they still had plenty of work to do before they could sit back and savor the rewards of what they’d sowed.
Right now, they were still driving in herds every year, consisting of various breeds to ensure nothing would wipe them out. Not weather or disease. He’d brought in a hearty line of Herefords out of Texas this spring, and Mick had left a few weeks ago to go farther south, into Mexico, to purchase some of the Spanish cattle he’d read about.
A grin tugged at Stafford’s lips. Mick must have stopped in Huron, let it be known he was heading south. “You almost had me on that one, Walt,” Stafford said, letting out a sigh. In the five years since they’d settled out here and claimed hefty shares of glorious land from the government, Mick had talked about finding a wife, especially during the long cold winters. Stafford, having had his fill of women before he left Mississippi, told Mick countless times what a bad idea that would be. He went so far as to suggest Mick heat up a rock on the cookstove if his bed was that cold, had even hauled home a few good-size stones now and again, just to keep the teasing going. Practical jokes were never far apart between the two of them. Mick was like that—a jokester.
Half the men in the territory, including Walt, had heard Mick spout off about finding a wife, and the old jigger must be trying to carry on the joking. “So, what’s your real reason for being here?” Stafford asked, picking his cup up again. “No one rides a day and a half just to say hello.”
The deep wrinkles in Walt’s face remained as the merriment slipped from his eyes and the grin transformed into a grimace. The kind people make when they’re delivering bad news. A chill raced up Stafford’s arm and he set his cup back down.
“That is the reason I’m here, Stafford. There’s a woman claiming to be Mick’s bride, or soon to be, at the hotel.” Walt shook his head as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying, either. “And she’s got a passel of kids. Six I think, but I could be wrong. I’d have brought them out,” Walt went on, after taking a sip of his coffee. “But I ain’t got a rig that big.”
The eerie sensation was back, suggesting the man was serious, yet Stafford, as usual, stuck to his guns. “The joke’s on you, Walt,” he said. “Mick’s not here. He and a few cowhands left last month. I don’t expect them back until the snow flies, or next spring if he buys cows.”
“Oh,” the man said, as if that was news. Bad news. Shaking his head, he added, “I ain’t trying to fool you, Stafford. There’s really a woman, and she’s really claiming to be Mick’s bride.”
Stafford bolted out of his chair and was halfway across the room before he knew he’d moved.
“What are you gonna do?” Walt asked.
“What am I going to do?”
Rubbing his stubble-covered chin, Walt appeared to be contemplating the ins and outs of the world. “Well,” he said slowly. “I suspect you could hire one of Skip Wyle’s freight wagons.”
Growling and rubbing at his temples, Stafford silently called both Mick and Walt a few choice names. His question had been hypothetical. He didn’t need a freight wagon. Mick hadn’t been any more serious when he’d talked of marriage this time than he had been dozens of times before.
Don’t be surprised if I come home with a wife, Mick had shouted as he’d kneed his horse out of the yard. But he said those same words practically every time he left for town. As usual, Stafford had replied that Mick had better add on to his cabin first. His partner’s reply had been the same suggestion as always. That Stafford could do that as a wedding gift, since he was the one who liked to build things.
The sensation that came over Stafford was that of breaking through ice on a frozen lake. That had actually happened to him once, and Mick had been there to pull him out and haul him home.
Right now he wasn’t remembering how sick he’d been afterward, how he still hated walking on frozen water. Instead, he was recalling how his parting conversation with Mick hadn’t ended as usual. This time Mick had told Stafford that he’d better hurry up, have the cabin done by the time he returned.
“Damn,” Stafford muttered before he spun to stare at Walt who was refilling his coffee cup from the pot on the stove. Another shiver rippled down his spine. “Six kids?”
Walt nodded.
* * *
Marie Hall sat on a patch of green grass in the field next to the hotel, watching Terrance and Samuel play with the dog they’d discovered begging for food last week. A stray, possibly left by someone traveling through, that’s what Mrs. Murphy, the aging woman who cooked for the restaurant and who’d saved scraps for the animal, had said.
Marie smiled to herself, for the dog—white with brown patches—had been just the diversion the boys needed. Marie shifted her gaze to make sure Beatrice and Charlotte were still picking daisies, and then she glanced toward Charles and Weston. Never far apart, the youngest of her wards were chasing grasshoppers and mimicking them, which had Marie chuckling at their somewhat awkward leaps. The twins were only four so their coordination wasn’t the best.
They were adorable, though. All six of the Meeker children. Strangers on the train, and here in town, had commented they all looked identical, not just Charles and Weston, and would ask how she could tell them apart. It was easy. Perhaps because she knew them so well.
Like right now. “Charles,” she said warningly. “Do not put that in your mouth.”
Little blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes looked up at her mournfully. Marie forced her gaze to remain stern as she shook her head. He dropped the pebble and returned to jumping, following his brother.
A heavy sigh settled deep in Marie’s lungs. It had taken four months to break him of sucking his thumb, and ever since the fire, rather than his thumb, Charlie was forever putting things in his mouth. Anything he could find. It was comforting for him, she understood that, but also extremely dangerous. Some days she wondered if she should allow him to suck his thumb, just until things were settled. The poor dear had been through so much.
They all had been through a lot, and it wasn’t over.
“Marie Hall?”
Startled, for she hadn’t heard anyone approach, Marie snapped her head around so fast her neck popped, making her flinch.
The bright sun only allowed her to make out the silhouette of a tall man with a wide-brimmed hat. Gathering her skirt, she rose to her feet. “Yes,” she answered, standing and shading her eyes with one hand.
Besides the hat, he had on a gun belt and a black leather vest. Dark brown hair hung past his shoulders and his chin was covered with a similarly colored beard. Marie couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder that raced over her skin. She’d come to understand most men out here wore guns, but she’d sincerely hoped Mick Wagner would be more civilized.
A lump formed in her throat. “Yes,” she repeated. Her nerves wouldn’t allow her to offer a hand in greeting, so she rested hers atop the heads of the twins who now stood one on each side of her. “I’m Marie Hall.”
“Are you the cowboy that’s gonna be our new da?”
That was Weston. He was the most verbal of the twins, and Marie stopped herself short of correcting him to say father instead of da. She had more important things to worry about. Such as how rough around the edges Mick Wagner appeared to be.
The others had gathered close, and Terrance pushed Weston’s shoulder. “We don’t need a new father.”
Being the oldest, Terrance was greatly opposed to Marie’s plan. She could understand a boy of ten wouldn’t want a new father, and she’d tried to explain they didn’t have another option. By proxy, Mick Wagner was now responsible for all six Meeker children. Making the man understand they came along with her was a concern. She hoped, with all she had, he would see their inclusion as a benefit.
There had been rumors, after a man named Walt Darter had ridden out to Mr. Wagner’s ranch last week, that Mick hadn’t ordered a bride. No one mentioned it to her, especially not Mr. Darter. He’d simply said Mick wasn’t home but that a message had been sent to him. She’d thanked Mr. Darter for his efforts and never let it be known she’d heard the whispers or seen the finger-pointing. Partially because it wasn’t a rumor. Mick Wagner hadn’t ordered a bride. And partially because she had no idea what she and the children would do if he didn’t claim them—soon.
“I—” She had to clear the squeak from her voice. “I’m assuming you’re Mr. Wagner.”
“Nope,” the man said.
Marie was still processing a wave of relief when Weston asked, “You’re not our new da?”
“Nope,” the man repeated.
“Are you a cowboy?” the child asked.
“Yep.” He winked at Weston. “Just the wrong cowboy.”
Marie couldn’t let Weston’s questions continue, yet hers floundered as she said, “Is Mr. Wagner...”
“I’m his partner,” the man said. “Stafford Burleson.”
Terrance snorted and bumped his shoulder into Samuel’s. “Stafford,” he whispered, as if finding great humor in the name. Samuel, seven and always eager to follow his older brother, snickered, as well.
Marie chose to ignore them. She’d learned, while being trained as a nursemaid, which battles were worth fighting when it came to children of every age. This wasn’t one. Besides, she couldn’t quite fathom a cowboy having such an unusual name, either. Not to mention she was more than a bit relieved to know this wasn’t the man she’d told everyone from here to Chicago had ordered her as a bride. “Is Mr. Wagner in town?” she asked. Several people had told her Mick Wagner’s ranch was a distance from Huron—too far for her and the children to travel alone.
Tipping the edge of his hat back, and giving her a very penetrating stare from eyes that looked to be as gray as a storm cloud, the man acted as if he wasn’t going to answer her questions.
Marie’s nerves started jumping faster than the grasshoppers the twins had been chasing. She’d been charging things in Mr. Wagner’s name since leaving Chicago. Soon the bills would be more than she’d be able to repay. That wasn’t her major concern—the children were—but with each day that passed, their financial situation had started to trouble her more and more.
Finally, when the air in her lungs had built up a tremendous pressure from his stare, Mr. Burleson said, “I’m here to take you to Mick’s place.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but her sigh was so long she wondered if her toes had been holding air. When it was all out, she nodded. “Well, thank you. We’ve been expecting he’d send someone.” In truth she’d been praying he’d come, or send someone, but she’d never allow the children to know she’d been worrying about the outcome of their adventure.
The man nodded. “We can head out in an hour.”
“An hour?” Still shaky with relief, it took Marie a moment to process his statement. Her thoughts shifted to everything that needed to be done before they left, and she shook her head. “That’s not possible. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Burleson’s stormy eyes glared again. “We’ll leave in an hour.”
“No, we won’t.” She spun about, gestured to the children. “Gather your playthings. It’s time to return to our rooms.”
They minded without question, for once, and she turned back to the man. “We’ll be ready to leave tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”
“It’s barely noon,” he said. “We can get a good number of miles under our belt yet today.”
“Tonight is bath night, Mr. Burleson,” she said, holding her ground. When it came to the children and their needs she’d argue until the sun set—dealing with the solicitor back in Chicago had taught her to not back down. No matter how frightening it was. “I will not have the children’s schedule upset.”
“You will not—”
“That’s correct,” she interrupted. “I will not.” No good nursemaid would, and she was the best nursemaid that had ever come out of Miss Wentworth’s training course. The owner herself had said as much. Marie had a document that proclaimed it in writing. She’d used it as a testimonial when interviewing for positions. Not that she’d need it anymore. Abandoning the Meekers was something she’d never do. That’s what she’d told Mr. Phillips, the solicitor, back in Chicago, as well as several other people who’d suggested such a thing. She’d been hired as their nursemaid, and she would fulfill her duties.
The children had gathered around again, holding their toys and looking at her expectantly. So was Mr. Burleson. With so much to do, Marie couldn’t waste any time. “You can see to the hotel bill and the train fares, Mr. Burleson, and then bring the wagon around. A large number of our possessions can be loaded this afternoon.”
“Hotel bill? Train fares?”
“Yes. For the children.” She didn’t explain she’d paid her own way, by selling her necklace and ear bobs. It wasn’t necessary. The letter she’d written Mr. Wagner prior to leaving Chicago explained it all. How his cousin, Emma Lou Meeker, and her husband, John, had perished in the fire that burned down the entire block surrounding the gas-fitting firm Mr. Meeker had owned. And how, a mere week after the funeral, Mr. Phillips had appeared at the Meekers’ big brownstone home, explaining that the bank owned everything. He’d stated the children were to be put in an orphanage until Mr. Wagner could be notified. Upon his approval, the children could then be put up for adoption. Mr. Phillips had gone on to explain a few neighboring families were interested in adopting one or two.
Marie held off her shiver of horror. That would not happen. Either option. The only chance the children had of staying together was Mr. Wagner. Emma Lou had listed her cousin as the benefactor on a small life insurance policy. The paperwork for the policy was safely tucked away, and Marie would present it to Mr. Wagner upon their meeting. The policy would be more than enough to reimburse him for the travel and lodging expenses the children had incurred, though not enough to raise all six children to adulthood. That was something Mr. Wagner would have to see to. She’d help, of course, as much as possible. She owed Emma Lou and John for paying off her debts, and this was how she could repay their kindness. If not for them she wouldn’t have the small amount of money she did have. Above all, though, the children needed her, and she would not let them down.
Clapping her hands, she said, “Children.”
* * *
Stafford stared as the woman, nose in the air, marched away, followed by the flock of red-headed kids like a mother duck leading her brood to water. Or like Custer leading the 7th Cavalry Regiment into battle. That conflict might have had a different outcome if Marie Hall had been leading the troops. She fired demands like bullets.
He’d met her kind before. Saw the way she shuddered and the disdain in her eyes as she took in his appearance. So he needed a haircut and a shave. That was none of her business. He’d considered visiting the barbershop before meeting her, making himself presentable, but curiosity had won out. The chance to get a glimpse of the woman who was claiming Mick had ordered her had been too strong when Walt said the bride-to-be was behind the hotel in Huron.
Stafford hadn’t planned on heading home until tomorrow, either, but her haughty attitude had changed his mind the moment she’d stood, lip curled, as her eyes roamed over him from nose to tail like he was a mangy cow on the auction block.
His partner didn’t have any more time to visit the barber than he did—the cattle company kept them both busy. Then again, it was highly unlikely Mick and Marie Hall had ever met. They might have corresponded though. Most likely last spring, while he’d been gone, down in Texas rounding up cattle. Mick had been home, then, and she could have sent him a picture. His partner was a sitting duck when it came to a pretty woman. He went half crazy over them. Women, foolish as they were, fell for Mick’s boyish charm, too.
Stafford took another long look as the woman turned the corner, kids trailing behind.
He’d never seen so many freckles. Not all at once. And not one of those freckle-faced little kids looked anything like her. They were all fair skinned with copper-colored hair, whereas she had dark hair and eyes in shades of brown that teetered on black. That had him wondering what happened to her husband. The father of all those kids, or da as one had called him. That little guy had quite a lisp, and as much as Stafford hadn’t wanted it to, a grin had won out when the kid spoke.
They disappeared around the corner of the hotel, every last one of them. Stafford took a step to follow, but paused. Miss Marie Hall. That’s what Walt had called her. Miss. It made sense, too, considering she didn’t look old enough to have one kid, let alone six.
Whose kids did she have?
Stafford scratched his chin, which itched due to the inch-long whiskers. Mick may have ordered a bride, but there was no way he’d have ordered six kids. That much Stafford would bet his life on.
Huron was a busy place, the railroad made it so, and someone knew something. She’d been here over a week, and with a town this size, people would know her story. He’d start at the depot. Find out about those fares she was referring to, as well as a few other things.
An hour later, Stafford concluded Mick was going to owe him more than money when he finally returned. Those weren’t her kids—as he’d suspected. They were a stack of orphans she’d rustled up after their parents died in a fire. The ticket master had told him that, and how she’d promised Mick would pay their fares upon his arrival. She’d paid her own fare, though, which didn’t make a lot of sense and left more questions in place of the few Stafford had found answers for.
After leaving the depot, he’d rented one of Skip Wyle’s freight wagons—had to after learning about the amount of luggage she had. From what he’d heard, it took up one entire hotel room. “The children’s things,” she’d called them—that’s what he’d been told.
This woman was pulling one over on Mick. That was clear. A part of Stafford didn’t mind that. It was time Mick learned a lesson, a hard one about women. All the warnings Stafford had supplied over the years sure hadn’t done anything.
The wagon had been sent to the hotel, along with a couple of men to load it, and though Stafford considered leaving his hair and beard as they were, since it clearly disgusted Miss Marie Hall, he couldn’t take it. His razor had snapped in two last month and he’d been itching—literally—to get a new one ever since, not to mention how his hair had grown so long it continuously whipped into his eyes.
Besides, men waiting for a haircut gossiped more than women sewing quilts, and that alone was enough to make Stafford head straight for the barber shop. By the time Mick arrived home—which would hopefully be soon because Stafford had sent a telegram to Austin, knowing his partner would make a stopover there—Stafford would know everything there was to know about Miss Marie Hall. He’d fill in the blanks for Mick—those that he instinctively knew she’d leave out—long before wedding bells rang.
Stafford just didn’t want to see Mick bamboozled. They might both get married some day, raise kids across the creek from each other, but neither of them would be conned into it. He wouldn’t because he was smart, had long ago learned what to watch out for, and Mick wouldn’t because they were best friends, and friends looked out for each other.
* * *
Stafford’s confidence was still riding high the next morning as he headed toward the hotel. He hadn’t learned a whole lot more about Miss Marie Hall, but what he had fit perfectly with what he already knew. He still doubted—as he had from the beginning—that Mick had ordered her. It was possible she’d somehow heard about a cowboy—well on his way to becoming a wealthy rancher—who spouted off about wanting a bride. The fact that Mick wasn’t around played into Stafford’s thoughts, as well. Without his partner to interfere, he’d be able to show her just what living on the plains meant. Men had to be tough, but women, they had to be hard, and that was the one thing Miss Marie Hall wasn’t. He could tell that by her hands. They were lily white.
There was a definite spring in his step as he made his way down the hotel corridor to knock on her door. Upon hearing movement, he shouted, “Burning daylight.”
All Marie saw was the back of a stranger turning the corner, heading for the hotel stairway, when she opened the door. She’d been awake for some time, assembling the essentials the children would need this morning and making sure they each had specific items in their satchels. The men who’d packed the wagon yesterday said they’d have to spend one night on the road, most likely in the wagon, before they arrived at Mick Wagner’s ranch, and she wanted to make sure the children wouldn’t be put out much by the travel. The train trip had taught her to pack books and toys, things to hold their attention. It was for her sake as much as theirs. She’d been frazzled by the time the train had arrived in Huron, and didn’t want to be that way upon meeting Mr. Wagner.
“Is it time to leave?” Beatrice asked.
“It’s time to get up,” Marie answered, glancing toward the child sitting in the middle of the bed. Peeking back into the hall, though she knew it was empty, Marie frowned. The voice had made her skin shiver, and she’d thought it was Mr. Burleson, yet it must not have been. At least, the man turning the corner hadn’t been him—far too well groomed. Which was just as well, she’d see enough of Mr. Burleson for the next day or two, and not telling him he needed a shave and haircut was going to be difficult.
He’d occupied her thoughts since meeting him yesterday. For the first time since embracing her plan, an unnerving dread had settled in her stomach and remained there. She’d imagined Mick Wagner would be like his cousin. Refined, with a kind and gentle nature. Someone who would see the children’s welfare as the priority. That’s how Emma Lou and her husband, John, had been. If Mr. Wagner was anything like his partner, he wouldn’t have any of those qualities. Mr. Burleson surely didn’t. The only time he’d looked remotely pleasant was when he’d winked at Weston. Thank goodness there would be others traveling with them today. Being alone with Mr. Burleson...
She gulped and slammed two doors shut, the one to the room and the one allowing crazy thoughts into her mind.
Beatrice and Charlotte chatted excitedly about the adventure of riding in a covered wagon, and Marie feigned enthusiasm, to keep them from worrying. That was part of her job. Children should never worry about being safe, or going hungry, or any of the frightening things she’d encountered growing up.
In no time, the girls and all four boys, who’d been staying in the adjoining room, were dressed and ready for breakfast. After checking under the beds one final time to ensure nothing would be left behind, Marie led her charges out the door.
In the dining room she settled everyone upon the chairs at their customary table and caught her breath before taking her own seat. That’s when she noticed the man watching her. Her cheeks grew warm from his stare, and she quickly averted her eyes. A good nursemaid never noticed men, no matter how handsome, and she was the best.
His ongoing stare gave her the jitters, and Marie did her best to ignore the stare and her fluttering stomach. Meals were ordered for the children, along with toast and tea for herself, which she would once again pay for separately. She’d never be indebted to anyone ever again, including Mr. Wagner. Her meager savings were dwindling quickly, but hopefully Mr. Wagner would see her worth and hire her. She’d be able to replenish her monies then. Right now, the children’s future was her priority and worth every cent she spent. They were also what gave her the courage to stand up to the men at the bank, the railroad, even the hotel and everyone else they’d encountered during this journey.
With appetites that were never ending, the children cleaned their plates, even Charlotte, who was a finicky eater. Marie was savoring her last sip of tea when a shadow fell upon the table. It was the man. She knew that without looking up, and fought the urge to do so, hoping he’d move away. He was a stranger, not one of the locals they’d come to know the past week.
“You should have eaten more than that,” he said. “It’ll be a long time until we eat again.”
The voice sent a tremor down her spine, and Marie couldn’t stop her head from snapping up. It couldn’t possibly be Mr. Burleson, yet the vest, the hat, the gun belt...
One brow was raised when her eyes finally found their way all the way up to his face, which was clean shaven. His features were crisp now, defined, including an indent in the center of his chin, and his eyes seemed no longer gray but faded blue and almost twinkling. That’s when Marie saw his smile. It slanted across his face in a cocky, self-assured way that was extremely vexing. Not exactly sure she could, or should, speak at this moment—for something deep in her stomach said he wouldn’t be as easy to deal with as the other men she’d encountered—she pinched her lips together.
“You said it was bath night,” Stafford Burleson stated, as he practically pulled the chair out from beneath her.
Chapter Two (#ulink_7b4b48f5-93de-51db-93ce-a2c71d519cf9)
The tension inside her was not a good sign, especially when Marie knew it had very little to do with the children or the wagon or even the bumpy ride. It was him. Stafford Burleson was the reason. Not just his good looks. Her efforts to ignore him weren’t working. Who would ever have known that under all that hair...
She shook her head, tried again not to think about his looks. If only her friend Sarah were here now, she’d have some thoughts on what to do about that. And other things.
Sarah was the Hawkins family’s nursemaid. They’d lived down the road from the Meekers and the two of them often took the children to the park together. Sarah had said the Hawkinses had made inquires about eventually adopting the twins—Charles and Weston—having only girls themselves. Knowing how Marie felt, Sarah had helped formulate this mission—taking the children to meet the guardian named in their mother’s will.
Sarah had known a woman who’d gone west as a mail-order bride, said the man who’d ordered her promised the railroad he’d pay for her fare at the other end, and insisted Marie could do the same thing. Uncomfortable expecting Mick Wagner to pay for her fare, Marie had sold the jewelry the Meekers had given her for Christmas—it wasn’t like she’d ever have the occasion to wear such things, anyway. The children’s fares were a different issue. Therefore, she’d used the mail-order bride ruse, and was thankful it had worked as well as it had.
Sarah said Mick Wagner would probably be glad to hire her as the children’s nursemaid, which is exactly what Marie hoped. She couldn’t imagine being separated from the children. However, she wished she’d asked Sarah a few more questions. Her friend had a much broader understanding of men, and often spoke of the day she’d be married with her own children to raise. She’d declared that marrying Mick Wagner would be a good choice, if he was so inclined, because Marie would never have to worry about finding another job. She didn’t want another job, but every time she glanced at the man beside her, the idea of marriage made her insides tremble.
She closed her eyes and fought against another tremor. If Mick Wagner was anything like the brute sitting beside her, he could very well demand things. Things she couldn’t even fathom. Holding her breath, Marie pressed a hand to her stomach. Surely a man with six children to raise wouldn’t insist on embarking upon behavior that might produce another one? Miss Wentworth’s lesson on copulation had been extremely embarrassing to sit through, and the lesson on childbirth downright dreadful.
“Marie.”
The whisper in her ear had her turning around, purposely not glancing toward Stafford Burleson beside her on the front seat of the wagon. The bouncy ride made the train journey they’d experienced seem comfortable in comparison, and the hot sun blazing down on them was relentless.
“Yes, Weston,” she replied to the child standing behind the seat, protected from the sun by a billowing canvas. “What do you need, dear?”
The child whispered in her ear.
“Very well.” Still without glancing his way, she said, “Mr. Burleson, we need to stop.”
“Stop?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
Marie played with the bow at her chin that kept her bonnet from fluttering off with the wind, willing herself to maintain the nursemaid calm she’d perfected. The man’s tone was laced with impatience—as it had been all morning—which grated on her nerves. Patience was the number one trait a person working with children needed to maintain, and he was souring hers. “Weston needs to take care of something,” she stated.
“What?” Stafford Burleson asked, as he flapped the reins over the horses’ backs, keeping them at a steady pace.
“I’m sure I don’t need to explain what he needs to take care of,” Marie said, nose forward. “At least, I shouldn’t have to.”
A low growl rumbled before he said, “Didn’t you tell them to do that before we left town?”
Biting her tongue would not help, even if she had a mind not to speak. “Of course I did,” she declared, “but small children have small bladders.”
“Not that small,” he exclaimed. “I can still see Huron behind us.”
She couldn’t help but glance around and gaze through the front and back openings of the canopy covering the wagon. The dark cluster on the horizon ignited yet another bout of tremors. She and the children were now completely at the mercy of this insufferable man, with nothing more than prayers for protection. Refusing to panic, she said, “In country this flat, I’m sure a person can see for ten miles or more.”
“We haven’t gone ten miles,” Mr. Burleson insisted. “We’ve barely gone two.”
“That, Mr. Burleson,” she said, “makes no difference. Weston needs to relieve himself and you will stop this wagon immediately.”
The snarl that formed on his face was frightening, but it also snapped her last nerve in two. He was the most insufferable man she’d ever encountered. If it had been just her, she might have cowered at his bullying, but she was the only protection the children had. She would not see them harmed, and that gave her the courage, or perhaps the determination, to return his stare with one just as formidable.
Marie was sure he cursed under his breath, but since he also pulled the horses to a stop and set the brake, she ignored it—this once—and turned around.
Climbing out of the high wagon was like climbing down a tree. Instead of branches there were steps and wagon spokes to navigate—an extremely difficult task with her skirt flapping in the wind. The alternative, having Mr. Burleson assist her as he’d tried to in town, was out of the question, so Marie managed just fine, apart from a stumble or two.
She kept her chin up, suspecting the foul man was now chuckling under his breath, and marched toward the back of the wagon where she lifted Weston to the ground.
“Go behind that bush,” she instructed, gesturing toward a scattering of shrubs a short distance away.
Weston scurried away and Marie glanced toward the wagon, prepared to ask if any of the other children needed to relieve themselves.
“If anyone else has to go, do it now,” a male voice demanded harshly.
Spinning about, she eyed him. “I was about to suggest that, Mr. Burleson.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Were you?”
“Yes, I was.” Arguing in front of the children should be avoided at all measures, so she took a deep breath and turned, poking her head over the end gate. “Does anyone else need to join Weston?”
Five little heads, those she’d protect with her life, gestured negatively. The quivering of Charlie’s bottom lip had Marie’s ire flaming. Whirling round, she grabbed one solid arm and dragged Mr. Burleson a few feet away from the wagon. “I will not have you intimidating these children.”
“You will not—”
“That’s right,” she interrupted. “I will not permit you to speak to them so. There is no need for you to use that tone of voice around them. They are small children and—”
“Where the hell did you come from lady?” Stafford interrupted. One minute she was shaking like a rabbit and the next she was snapping like a cornered she-wolf— demanding things. Their luggage took up one entire freight wagon, leaving him no choice but to buy a second one this morning that included some kind of covering to keep the children out of the sun. It was now well past noon, and at the rate they were traveling it would take three days to get home. If he was lucky.
“There’s no reason to curse. You know perfectly well the children and I are from Chicago,” she said, pert little nose stuck skyward again.
Stafford shook his head. Didn’t anyone know a rhetorical question when they heard one?
“Get that kid in the wagon,” he barked, walking toward the team. Mick was going to owe him so much he might as well sign over his half of the ranch the moment he rode in. Dealing with Miss Marie Hall and her brood was costing more than money. Stafford’s sanity was at stake.
August was the hottest month of the year, and here he was traipsing across the countryside with a wagonload of kids and the haughtiest woman he’d ever met.
If he’d been thinking, he’d have hired another man to drive this rig and ridden Stamper, his horse, back to the ranch.
The wagon seat listed as Marie climbed up the side of the rig with about as much grace as a chicken trying to fly. So be it. He’d offered his assistance once—back in town—and wouldn’t do that again. He’d never been a slow learner.
Eventually, she got herself hoisted up and Stafford had to clench his hands into fists to keep from setting the team moving before she got herself situated on the seat. He’d have gotten a chuckle out of watching her flail about, but he wasn’t in a chuckling mood.
“We may proceed now, Mr. Burleson.”
“You don’t say,” he drawled, simply because he had to say something. Her uppity attitude had him wanting to show her just who was in charge.
Him.
Stafford snapped the reins and let the horses set a steady pace forward. The trail was relatively smooth and driving the rig didn’t take much concentration or effort. Anyone could do it.
“You know how to drive a team?” he asked.
She didn’t glance his way, just kept her snooty little face forward. “Of course not. I am a nursemaid, not a teamster.”
It had probably been a bad idea anyway. He just wanted to be anywhere but here right now. She was like every other woman he’d ever known, with a way of making a man feel obligated to be at her beck and call. He’d given up on that years ago and didn’t want to go back.
“A nursemaid?” he asked, when his mind shifted. “I thought you were a mail-order bride.”
Her sigh held weight. “A person can be two things at once.”
“That they can,” he agreed. Snooty and persnickety.
A cold glare from those brown eyes settled on him, telling him she knew he was thinking unkind thoughts about her, and he couldn’t help but grin. Let her know she was right. He even added a little wink for good measure.
Huffing, she snapped her gaze forward again.
Darn close to laughing, Stafford asked, “So how’d you and Mick meet?” The ranch was still a long way off and he might as well use the time to gather a bit more information. If she and Mick had corresponded, and if she had sent Mick a picture of herself, Mick would have waved it like a flag. Therefore, Stafford was convinced there had been no picture sharing. He also knew he’d need all the ammunition he could get once Mick saw her. Even as testy as a cornered cat, Marie Hall was a looker. Her profile reminded him of a charcoal silhouette, drawn, framed and hung on a wall to entice onlookers to imagine who the mysterious woman might be.
Not that he was enticed. He knew enough not to be drawn in by the graceful arch of her chin or how her lashes looked an inch long as she stared straight ahead.
After another weighty sigh, she said, “Mr. Wagner and I have not officially met, yet.”
“Lucky man,” Stafford mumbled, trying to override the direction his thoughts wanted to go.
An owl couldn’t snap its neck as fast as she could, and he was saved from whatever she’d been going to say when one of the kids—he couldn’t tell them apart for other than a few inches in height they all looked alike—poked their head through the canvas opening and whispered something in her ear.
Stafford’s nerves ground together like millstones at the way her voice softened. When she spoke to those children honey practically poured out of her mouth. When it came to him, her tone was as sharp as needles. He couldn’t help but imagine it would be the same for Mick. The poor fool. What had he been thinking?
An hour later, Stafford had flipped that question around on himself. What had he been thinking? Though he wasn’t an overly religious man, he found himself staring skyward and pleading. Save me. For the love of God, save me.
Traveling with six kids was maddening. They flapped around more than chickens in a crate and argued nonstop, not to mention he’d had to halt the wagon again, twice, for people to relieve their “small bladders.” No wonder. She passed the canteen between those kids on a steady basis. Insisting they drink in this heat.
He’d had enough. That was all there was to it. Enough. Even before discovering the dog—which looked more like a rat—the kids had been hiding in the back of the wagon. It had been clear Marie hadn’t known the older boys had smuggled it aboard, not until it, too, had to relieve itself. A dog that size wasn’t good for anything except getting stepped on, and from the looks of its round belly and swollen teats, there’d soon be a few more of them running around. Marie had been surprised about that, too. When he’d pointed it out, her cheeks had turned crimson.
Before she began loading the children and the dog back into the wagon, Stafford leaned through the front opening of the canvas, gathered up both canteens and stashed them beneath the seat.
They’d be putting on some miles before anyone got another drink. He wasn’t being mean, wouldn’t let anyone die of thirst, he was just putting his foot down.
It was a good ten minutes before everyone was settled in the back of the wagon and she’d once again stationed her bottom on the seat beside him. Stafford didn’t bother waiting for her signal, just gave out a low whoop that sent the horses forward.
A short time later, when the little guy with the lisp said he was hungry, Stafford merely shook his head.
She on the other hand, said consolingly, “I’m sure we’ll stop for lunch soon, Weston.” Flipping her tone sour as fast as a cook turns flapjacks on a grill, she added, “Won’t we, Mr. Burleson?”
“Nope,” Stafford answered.
“Yes, we will,” she insisted. “Children have small stomachs, and—”
“And Jackson is probably a good five miles ahead of us.” Pointing out the obvious, in case she’d forgotten, he added, “He has all the food with him. You were the one who said it wouldn’t fit in this wagon.”
Marie had to press a hand to her lips to contain her gasp. The wagon bed was so small, barely enough room for each child to sit comfortably, she’d had to insist all other items be placed in the larger freight wagon. Surly even someone as vile as Mr. Burleson could understand that. Though the freight wagon, once a dot on the horizon, was gone.
“Why did you let him get so far ahead of us?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” Mr. Burleson answered with a clipped tone. “You did.” He gave an indifferent nod over one shoulder. “Small bladders.”
Pinching her lips together didn’t help much. Neither did searching her brain full of nursemaid training. None of it had prepared her for this. Her education focused on what to do inside the home of her charges. Improvise. She had to find something to take the child’s mind off his hunger, and then she’d be able to work out what to do about it. Turning she reached for one of the canteens. “Have some water for now, dear.”
Neither container was where she’d left it. “Who has the canteens?” she asked, looking mainly at Terrance. Though she tried not to single him out, he was usually the culprit.
The boy shook his head. “I don’t have them.”
“I do.”
A nerve ticked in her jaw as she turned to look at Mr. Burleson. “Why?”
“Because I’ll say who can have a drink, and when.”
“The children—”
“Won’t starve or die of thirst before we catch up with Jackson.”
That would not do. “Mr. Burleson—”
Despite the heat of the sun, his cold stare had her vocal chords freezing up.
“No one is getting a drink of water, Miss Hall,” he growled. “And we aren’t stopping until I say.” He twisted his neck a bit more, glancing into the wagon bed. “You kids pull out some of those books she made you pack and start reading.”
Six sets of startled eyes—for the children had never been spoken to with such harshness—instantly turned to their bags. In a matter of seconds, they were all reading. Or, at least, holding books in their hands with their heads hung over the pages.
She shouldn’t feel this thankful to see them all sitting quietly, but in truth they hadn’t sat still for more than five minutes since leaving town. If someone hadn’t been complaining they didn’t have enough room, someone else was hot, or thirsty, or had to go. Yet she was their nursemaid, not Stafford Burleson, and he had no right to speak to them so.
Under her breath, so the children wouldn’t hear, Marie started, “Mr. Burleson, I cannot have—”
His glare came from the corner of one eye as he once again interrupted, “Don’t you have a book you can read, too?”
Floored, she huffed before finding her voice. “I—”
“I,” he broke in, “need some peace and quiet.”
She hadn’t been spoken to that way, either, not in a very long time. Besides the shivers racing up her arms, her throat locked tight. Peace and quiet. Blinking back the tears threatening to fall in a way they hadn’t done for years, Marie turned her gaze to the horses and focused on the harnesses going up and down, trying to forget. Or just not let the memories come forward. She’d been sent back to the orphanage because of those words. That had been years ago, she told herself, and could not happen now. Could never happen again.
It took effort, lots of it, and by the time everything was suppressed, Marie was breathing hard and deep, as if she’d just run several miles. She’d been here before, this emotionally exhausted, but not in a very long time.
“Here.”
Marie blinked at the canteen before her chin.
“Take a drink,” he said.
Her hands shook, but the tepid water flowing down her burning throat was such relief Marie took several swallows before worrying about the few droplets that dribbled down her neck. Her breathing was returning to normal, and by the time she’d replaced the cap and wiped away the droplets, she had much more control.
“Better?”
“Yes,” she managed, handing back the canteen. She couldn’t bring herself to glance his way, not even as his gaze blistered the side of her face. “Thank you.”
“They’ll be fine,” he said.
His voice was hushed, soft and even kindhearted, which threatened the control she’d mustered. “I’m sure you’re right,” she answered as firmly as possible. He was right. It took more than a few hours before a person’s stomach ached. A day or more until the pain became so strong that cramps set in. Those memories weren’t easily repressed, but they did remind her she was glad to have been sent back to the orphanage all those years ago.
“Look at that,” he said, one hand stretched out, gesturing toward the land covered with brown grass that went on for miles.
She’d been shocked at first, by the landscape so different from that of the city. Barely a green blade could be found, but she’d grown accustomed to it since arriving in Huron. That’s how life was, a series of changes one eventually got used to.
Marie also understood he was trying to redirect her thoughts, and she let him. No good ever came from dwelling on the past.
“It’s a deer,” he continued, “and two fawns.”
It wasn’t until the animal turned and leaped that Marie noticed two smaller ones bounding through the waist-high grass. “How did you see them?” she asked. “The grass is so tall.”
“Practice, I guess.”
“They’re so graceful,” she commented, watching until the deer disappeared. “Do they always run like that? Almost as if they’re flying?”
“Yes, deer are pretty swift animals. Haven’t you seen any before?”
“Just pictures.”
He seemed different, quiet, thoughtful, and the moments ticking by threatened to set her back to thinking, so she added, “There aren’t any deer in the city.”
“The city being Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“You lived there your entire life?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Never left?”
“Not until boarding the train for Huron.” Marie bit her tongue then, hoping she hadn’t just provided him with an opening to start asking questions again. Partner or not, she wouldn’t explain everything to anyone but Mr. Wagner.
“What are their names?”
She had to glance his way, and was a bit taken aback by the grin on his lips. It was really only a fraction of a grin, but friendly nonetheless. How could he do that? Go from formidable to pleasant like someone flipping a coin? Thankful her spinning mind could form a question, she asked, “The children?”
“Yes. What are their names? How old are they?”
All on its own, a smile formed. The simple thought of her wards did that all the time. “Terrance is the oldest. He’s ten. Next is Charlotte, she’s nine, and Samuel is seven. Beatrice is six and the twins, Charles and Weston, are four.”
“And why do you have them?”
Her initial response was to state that it was none of his business, but, in fact, he had come to collect them and was delivering them to Mr. Wagner’s ranch. A small portion of an explanation wasn’t completely out of the question.
After a glance backward that showed the children were indeed reading—well, the older ones were, Weston and Charles had stretched out between the others and were dozing—Marie leaned toward him slightly, so she could speak as softly as possible. “Their parents perished in a fire.”
“I’d heard that,” he answered just as quietly.
“Where?”
“From the ticket taker at the train depot.”
“Oh.” That wasn’t alarming. She had made mention of it, just so the man would understand her delay in payment more clearly.
“That doesn’t explain why you have them,” he whispered, leaning closer yet.
Marie had to swallow and sat back a bit. “I was hired as their nursemaid last year, after the one they’d had for several years got married.”
“Is this your first job? The first time you’ve been a nursemaid?”
Ruffled slightly, wondering if he was suggesting she wasn’t capable, she squared her shoulders. “It was my first permanent position, but I graduated at the top of my class five years ago.”
“Whoa,” he said. “I can tell you’re well trained and confident in what you do.”
“Thank you,” Marie said, although a lingering doubt had her wondering if that had been a compliment or not. Men were difficult creatures to understand. This one more so than any other she’d encountered.
“How old are you?” he asked.
That was an inappropriate question, but being in the wild as they were, he was their only hope of survival, so she should attempt to be civil to him. Besides, he probably didn’t know the difference between appropriate and inappropriate questions. “I’m twenty.”
A brow was lifted as he asked, “Twenty?”
She nodded.
“So, if you graduated five years ago, and just got this job last year, what did you do in between?”
“I worked for several families,” Marie answered. “Just for short terms, helping out as families looked for permanent nursemaids or while others were ill and such.” She attempted to keep the frustration from her voice. Moving from family to family, staying only a few weeks or days at times, was extremely difficult. She’d barely get to know the children in her charge before being assigned elsewhere. It had been expected, though, because of her age. “A large number of families like their nursemaids to be on the older side. Even the Meekers, but they were willing to hire me permanently considering their last nursemaid, though she’d been a woman well into her thirties, had chosen to get married and end her employment.”
“Had she become a mail-order bride, too?”
Marie chomped down on her lip, preventing a startled no. How had she talked herself into this corner? Not seeing a direct escape route, she took the only one she could fathom. “My letter to Mr. Wagner explained everything.”
He was frowning deeply and holding those gray eyes on her. “Mr. Wagner isn’t here right now.”
“I know that,” she snapped, unable to stop herself.
He lifted an eyebrow as his gaze roamed up and down her for a moment, and then he turned and stared at the road ahead of them.
The pressure was enormous, but Marie held in her sigh. They’d talked enough. Silence would be a good thing for a few miles. No longer thinking about her past, the future and its dilemmas were clamoring for her attention.
“He’s not at the ranch, either,” Mr. Burleson said then.
“Mr. Wagner?” she asked, even though she knew that was exactly who Stafford Burleson meant.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
He shrugged. “Texas. Mexico.”
Marie couldn’t deny a quick flash of relief washed over her. Maybe she wouldn’t have to face the marriage issue right away. She and the children could get settled in and... “For how long?” she asked.
His gaze never left the road. “Can’t rightly say. Could be next spring before he gets back.”
“Next spring?” Panic overtook any sense of relief. Her funds were almost gone. The children would starve to death by then, unless... She shivered at the thought, but unfortunately, Stafford was her only hope.
Something in his eyes, the way they shimmered, had her mouth going dry, her nerves tingling as though a storm was approaching. Maybe there was another option. “Who lives at Mr. Wagner’s ranch in his absence?”
“Me.”
She swallowed. “You?”
Nodding, he said, “Yep. I told you I was his partner.”
An icy chill raced up her spine. “So the children and I will be living with...”
“Me.”
Good heavens, what had she done? Not thought her plan out clearly, that’s for sure. Living with this man had to be worse than marrying Mick Wagner.
Chapter Three (#ulink_273409fa-6a88-56a0-aca8-e6a366de68e0)
Stafford told himself a hundred times over that he shouldn’t get pleasure out of someone else’s fear, but he just couldn’t help it. When he’d said she’d be living with him, it had scared her into next week, but he was enjoying how it had knocked some of the haughtiness out of her.
She was still uppity, and continued to use that insufferable tone with him—when she had to speak to him—but she was wary. That’s the part he liked. She needed to be wary. Very. A nursemaid hauling someone else’s kids across the country as a mail-order bride? What kind of tale was that? There was more to it. The way she wouldn’t look him in the eye when she talked said that. If he didn’t know better, he’d wonder if she’d kidnapped those kids. She’d left too clear a trail, though. Anyone could have followed her, if that was the case.
He had a lot to learn, and with all that was going on, Stafford was discovering one thing about himself. Flipping the cards, so to speak, on a woman, was rather exciting. That opportunity had never come up in his life before now. Being raised in a family of seven children with only one brother had given him plenty of experience with women. He’d been born in the middle of five sisters. His brother, Sterling, was the oldest, and had already been working alongside their father by the time Stafford had come along. That meant he’d been told what to do and when to do it by women since the day he was born. Not to mention Francine Weatherford. She, too, had thought a man was little more than a dog that needed to be trained. He’d grown and changed a lot since leaving Mississippi ten years ago, on his eighteenth birthday, shortly after Francine broke their engagement and announced she was marrying Sterling.
Out of duty, and at his mother’s insistence, he’d stuck around for the wedding, and he’d even been back a half dozen times over the years to check in on everyone, but there wasn’t a day that went by when he wasn’t thankful he’d made his escape when he had. Sterling had a load of kids now, too, almost as many as their parents’ house had held. And Francine, well, last time he’d seen her, she hadn’t been nearly as pretty as she’d looked to him all those years ago.
A ferocious round of barking had Stafford lifting his head from where he was harnessing the team. The little dog, dubbed Polly by one of the kids, was kicking up a dirt storm near a thick patch of bushes several yards away. Stafford made a quick head count. All six kids were piling things in the back of the wagon as Marie had instructed. It was she, he noted, who was missing from the campsite. He’d quit thinking of her as Miss Hall sometime yesterday. Using her given name seemed to irritate her, and he liked that, too.
“Jackson,” he shouted toward the teamster readying the freight wagon. “You know where Marie is?”
The man, a big blond Swede with a voice that came from his ankles, shook his head. “Nope.”
They’d caught up with the freight wagon before sunset the night before, where Jackson had chosen a good spot to call it a day and had a pot of rabbit stew ready to be devoured by six hungry children. Never unprepared, Stafford had had a bag of jerky and apples they’d all consumed as they’d traveled, but still, once they’d hit camp, those kids had all but licked their plates clean. Actually, the two little ones had licked their plates. Marie had scolded them while he and Jackson shared a grin. They weren’t so bad—those kids—once they’d figured out that they couldn’t run roughshod over him the way they did over Marie.
Polly was still going wild, and Stafford settled a harness over one horse’s neck. “Finish this up, will you?” he asked Jackson, already moving toward the dog. If the crazy thing had a skunk cornered they’d all pay for it.
Stafford was almost to the edge of the thick bush when a noise caught his attention above the barking. It was faint, and subtle, but the kind of sound that a man never forgets once he hears it. Drawing his gun, Stafford scanned the ground cautiously, meticulously. Rattlers were shady and had the ability to blend in to their surroundings like no other creature.
“Get out of here, Polly,” he hissed, kicking dirt to scare the dog aside. It didn’t help. She started barking faster, louder. A movement near the roots of the bush proved it was a snake, shaking the buttons on its tail. The head was hidden and Stafford eased his way around the bush. He saw it then, arched up and drawn back, ready to strike.
Stafford fired.
The bullet hit its mark. The snake flew backward into the bush. At the same time, a scream sounded and Stafford saw little more than a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He took a step, rounded the bush fully and stopped.
Hands over her ears, flat on her stomach with her skirts up around her waist and her bloomers around her ankles, lay Marie. It had to be her. She was the only woman for miles around, and that was about the cutest bare bottom he’d ever seen. So lily white, round and somewhat plump, he had a heck of a time pulling his eyes off it.
Screeching and thuds said the children were approaching so he holstered his gun and bent down, taking her arms to haul her to her feet. “Come on.”
Wrestling against his hold, she demanded, “Why were you shooting at me?”
He grasped her more firmly and twisted her about. “I wasn’t shooting at you. Now pull up your bloomers before the kids see you.”
Her eyes grew as round as dish plates and her face turned redder than last night’s sunset. “Ooh!” She threw into a fit. Mouth sputtering and arms flaying so out of control she couldn’t stand.
He hoisted her to her feet. “Pull up your bloomers,” he repeated and then spun around, blocking her from view of the children racing around the bush.
“What did you shoot?” asked Terrance, the oldest and first to arrive.
“A rattler,” Stafford answered, pointing toward the bush. “Stand back, I gotta make sure it’s dead. Keep your brothers and sisters back, too.”
Terrance held out his arms, stopping the others from coming any closer as they arrived, and Stafford spun back around to check on Marie. The expression on her face was pure mortification. Could be the gunshot or the snake, but he was putting his money on the fact he’d caught her with her bloomers down, and it took all he had not to chuckle. “You all right?” he asked, tongue in cheek.
She nodded.
He picked up a stick and used it to poke at the snake before hooking it. Dead, it hung limply over the stick, and a tiny quiver inched up his spine as he pulled it clear of the foliage. It was a good-size rattler. Pushing four feet or more.
“I thought you said you shot a rabbit,” Terrance said. “That’s not a rabbit, it’s a snake.”
“It’s a rattlesnake,” Stafford explained. “They’re called rattlers because of the sound they make.”
The children oohed and aahed but it was the shuddering “Oh,” coming from behind him that had him twisting around. Marie’s face had about as much color as a cloud, and she appeared to be drooping before his eyes.
Stafford dropped the snake and caught her elbow. She slouched, but didn’t go all the way down. “Here,” he said, “sit down.”
She half nodded and half shook her head at the same time. “No, I’m all right. I don’t need to sit down.” The hold she had on his arm tightened. “Just give me a second to catch my breath.”
An odd sensation ticked inside him. She had guts, he had to give her that. Plenty of women, men, too, might have fainted dead away to see the size of the snake that had almost sunk its fangs into her backside.
“She didn’t get bit, did she?” Jackson asked, squeezing between the bush and the children to pick up the stick holding the snake.
Stafford waited for her to answer. Rattlers usually only bit once, because as soon as they sank their fangs in they held on and started pumping venom.
“No,” she said weakly. “I wasn’t bitten.”
“Good thing,” Jackson answered. “A rattler’s bite can be deadly.”
Her hold increased and Stafford experienced a bout of frustration at the Swede for being so insensitive. Not that he’d been overly sensitive to her during the trip, but that was different. At least, in his mind it was.
“Gotta lance open the wound,” the Swede went on. “Bleed out the poison as soon as possible and the person still might not make it.”
For a split second Stafford’s mind saw her backside again, and he cringed inwardly at how much damage that snake could have done.
“Whatcha gonna do with that?” Terrance asked, nodding toward the snake.
“Well, we could have snake stew for supper,” Jackson answered.
Marie made a quiet wheezing sound as she drew in air. She also straightened her stance and didn’t lean so hard against him. Stafford watched her closely as she shook her head. It was almost as if he could see her gumption returning.
“We will not be eating that,” she said sternly. “Not in a stew or any other way you might consider preparing it.”
Jackson nodded. “Most folks don’t take to eating them very well. I’ll get rid of it.” The man laid the snake on the ground and pulled a knife from his boot. “Just gonna cut off the rattles.”
“Why?” Terrance asked.
“’Cause that’s what you do,” Jackson said. “Look here.” He waved for the children to step closer. “Each one of these buttons, that’s what they’re called on his tail, was formed when it shed its skin. By counting the buttons, you can guess how old the snake might be.”
The children had gathered close, even the girls, and Stafford took a couple of steps backward, taking Marie with him. “You doing all right now?”
Her gumption may have returned, but there was something else about her that caught him off guard. She looked all soft and feminine, especially her big doe eyes.
“Yes, thank you,” she said softly.
“Thank your little dog, there,” he said roughly, not too willing to accept her gratitude. “If she hadn’t started barking, you may have gotten bit.”
Her cheeks turned bright pink. “I threw a pebble at her, trying to hush her up.”
“That couldn’t have been what riled up the snake,” he said, setting her arm loose and stepping away. “They usually skedaddle when it comes to things bigger than them.”
Another shudder of sorts was creeping its way up his spine. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he sensed it had something to do with standing this close to Marie, touching her, whispering. Those were not things he did.
“Well, thank you, and Polly, for coming to my rescue,” she said.
“There was no rescuing involved,” he clarified.
She was wringing her hands and cringing slightly, her face still flushed. He knew why a moment later.
“Mr. Burleson, about...about the position—”
Now that he could laugh at. “No one will ever know I saw your bare bottom, Marie.”
The exact look of mortification he’d seen on her face earlier reappeared. Too bad he hadn’t bet on the cause of it—he’d have won. At that moment, he chose to take it one step further. “That is, if you call me Stafford. I’d say the formality of Mr. Burleson would just be a waste now. Considering what I saw and all.”
Her hiss, along with the snap in those brown eyes told him she was back one hundred percent, and that was a good thing. So much so, he laughed, tipped his hat, and with a wink, turned around. “We’re wasting daylight,” he shouted, once again feeling a genuine skip in his step.
She caught up with him before he made it to the team. “Mr. Burleson—”
One look had her pinching her lips together.
“Stafford.”
He nodded. It really didn’t mean that much, other than that he’d won, and he liked being a winner.
Some of the steam left her as she bowed her head slightly. “I appreciate your discretion,” she huffed and then turned. “Children!”
He laughed, not caring that she heard and cast a very unfavorable look his way.
It didn’t take long before they were loaded up and heading west again. Marie was on the seat beside him again today, and that played a bit of havoc with Stafford’s insides. It hadn’t yesterday and there was no reason for it to this morning, but it did, and try as he might, ignoring it was impossible. Just as it was impossible to ignore how, every so often, his mind flashed back to the image of the lily-white flesh she was now sitting on. That was bound to affect a man. Any man.
“Mr. Burleson?”
“Yes, Samuel?” he answered, thankful he now knew the children’s names. The younger two, Charles and Weston, looked exactly alike and it wasn’t until they spoke that he knew who was who. Weston had the lisp, Charlie didn’t. Weston talked more than Charlie did, too. Probably because Charlie was always chewing on the collar of his shirt. It was pretty amazing how much he’d discovered about these kids in such a short time.
“You’re really a cowboy aren’t you?” Samuel asked.
“Well, I expect I am,” Stafford answered. He hadn’t thought of it much, but had to admit he liked who he was, now. A cowboy was as fitting a word as any, and it beat the heck out of being a cotton farmer. Not that he’d ever have been one of those. Sterling had inherited his father’s farm. That’s how it was with the oldest. The second son had to forge out on his own, make his own way in life. Which fit him just fine.
“Can I call you Stafford?” Samuel asked. “It sounds a lot more like a cowboy than Mr. Burleson, don’t you think?”
Marie opened her mouth, but he shook his head and grinned. Giving the boy a nod, he agreed. “Sure, you can call me Stafford.”
“Are there a lot of rattlers in these parts, Stafford?” the child then asked.
Aw, the real question. “Enough,” he answered, noting how Marie was staring at him. Making light of the truth might ease her anxiety, but it wouldn’t do any of them any good. “Rattlesnakes don’t like humans and tend to shy away, but if you startle one, or corner him, he’ll strike. There’s no doubt about that.”
“If you shoot another one, can I have the buttons off it?” Samuel asked.
Jackson had given the rattle he’d cut off to Terrance, who’d spent the last half hour making sure everyone in the wagon didn’t jostle about and break his new treasure.
“Yes,” Stafford answered, figuring that was fair. Then, just to encourage Terrance to share his bounty, he said, “Let me see that rattle.”
The oldest boy shouldered into the opening beside his brother. “Jackson says it’s fragile. That means it’ll break easy.”
“That’s what it means, all right,” Stafford said as he held the reins toward Marie. “Hold these.”
* * *
Still humiliated, Marie shook her head. Never, ever, had she been so embarrassed in her life. It would help if Stafford—as she was now forced to call him—didn’t find such humor in it all. He’d been grinning ever since he’d shot that snake. Every time she glanced his way, she could tell he was remembering what he’d seen, almost as if he’d pressed the image in a book the way one would a flower, to take it out and look at it every so often.
“If you’re going to live out here, Marie,” he said, thrusting the reins toward her, “you’ll need to learn to drive a wagon. Now take the reins. I’m right here, nothing’s going to happen.”
It would help, too, if he wasn’t so, well, right, and so bull-headed about everything. And if he hadn’t come to her rescue as he had. Swallowing a growl, she took the reins.
“That’s it,” he said. “Just hold them loosely. You don’t have to do anything. The horses know to follow the road.”
If she hadn’t just been found with her bottom as bare as an infant’s, she might have been nervous to drive a wagon of this size—of any size—but right now she wasn’t going to give Stafford anything else to laugh about. Consequently, she did as instructed, telling herself she could drive a wagon twice this size, and snuck a peek as he took the snake’s tail from Terrance.
“There’s twelve buttons,” Terrance said.
“I see that,” Stafford answered.
“Does that mean that snake was twelve years old?” Samuel asked.
“No,” Stafford answered.
Marie couldn’t help but relax a bit and appreciate how comfortable the children had become around Stafford. Yesterday, she’d feared the opposite, that he might have terrorized them. It appeared the children simply understood he wouldn’t tolerate misbehaving, and therefore they’d conducted themselves remarkably well ever since. In some ways she’d grown more comfortable around him, too, before the snake.
Actually, he’d probably saved her life this morning. Something she did need to be grateful for. Men had always made her nervous. Before this trip west, she’d never had to deal with them, and still wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it. Stafford was different, though. He was certainly stubborn and demanding, but, especially when it came to the children, she saw a softer side to him. One she couldn’t help but wonder about. Even admire—just the tiniest bit.
“These rattles are about as breakable as our fingernails,” he was telling the children, “and you know how easy it is to break one of them.” He shifted and held the snake’s tail in front of the boys. “See this bottom button? It’s called the nub. One that’s never been broken is smooth and round, but this one, see how it’s kind of pointed and split?”
When the boys nodded, he continued, “That means this rattle’s been broken.”
“So it was older than twelve?” Terrance asked, clearly enthralled.
Marie could no longer hold back her smile. Teaching was an integral part of being a nursemaid, and whether Stafford knew it or not, he was providing the boys a lesson in animal science.
“No. There’s no real way of guessing how old that snake was. Depending on the climate, how much it’s eaten and how much it’s grown, a snake sheds its skin several times a year. The only thing that’s for sure is the more buttons, the bigger the snake.”
Stafford glanced her way. He was smiling and lifted a brow as he asked, “Do you know what that means?”
Marie refrained from asking what, knowing the boys would, and they did.
“The bigger the snake, the farther away you want to stay,” Stafford answered his own question.
The humor in his eyes tickled her insides, making her want to giggle, but she held it in. Terrance and Samuel, though, laughed aloud. Stafford reached below the seat then, and pulled out a box. He lifted the lid and, after searching a bit, closed it and pushed the box back under the seat. Handing a piece of cloth to Terrance, he said, “Here. This is just a rag for greasing the wagon hubs, but it’ll work. When you’re done admiring your rattle, tie it up in this and then tie the rag to a brace bar holding up the canvas. That way you won’t have to worry about your brothers and sisters breaking it.”
“Thanks, Stafford, I will.” Terrance said, taking both the rattle and the rag.
The boys sat down, still guessing the age of the snake and Marie, a bit tongue-tied at the moment over how thoughtful and caring Stafford was being, had forgotten all about the reins in her hands until he spoke.
“You’re doing a good job.”
“Oh, here,” she said, handing over the reins. She wasn’t usually addlepated and it was a bit disconcerting that he made her feel as if she was. The way she was thinking about his looks was a bit distressing, too. How when he smiled the lines around his eyes deepened, enhancing his handsomeness. Thoughts like that should not be crossing her mind. She was a nursemaid, first and foremost. The children and their safety should control her thoughts at all times.
Not taking the reins, Stafford shook his head. “No, you’re doing a good job.” Leaning toward her, he then added, “Actually, let me show you how to lace the reins through your fingers, so you’ll have more control.”
One at a time, he wove the reins through her fingers. The leather was smooth and warm; however, quite unexpectedly, it was the touch of his skin on hers that caused her hands to burn and tremble.
“You’ll want to wear gloves when driving, if at all possible,” he said. “The leather can chafe the skin, like a rope burn.”
She nodded, not exactly sure why. Other than that she was feeling too out of breath to speak. Yesterday, sitting next to him had been no different than riding beside a stranger in a coach, or standing next to one in line somewhere, yet today, a new awareness had awakened inside her. One she’d never experienced. He was still a stranger—a somewhat overbearing one whom she really didn’t like very much—and sitting next to him shouldn’t be any different. But it was. Although she couldn’t say exactly how or why, perhaps because she was putting too much thought into it. She was known for that. Miss Wentworth had said one of her best attributes was how she could concentrate on a problem and ultimately come up with the best choice.
“Just curve this finger a bit,” Stafford said, forcing her finger to bend. “See how it tugs on that rein? And if you bend this one—” he maneuvered a finger on the other hand “—that rein moves. It doesn’t take much, and is pretty easy when the road is this smooth. You’ll soon learn that the rougher the road, the more control you’ll need over the horses.”
Marie was listening, but it was difficult to concentrate with him holding her hands as he was, and with the way he smelled. It was pleasant, spicy, and made the air snag in her chest. Telling herself not to think of such things didn’t help at all.
Attempting to focus all her thoughts on the children proved to be impossible, as well. But perhaps that was her way out. She could tell Stafford that watching over six children would take all her time and, therefore, she most assuredly would not need to learn to drive a wagon. No matter where they lived she had lessons to teach—reading and spelling, geography and grammar, philosophy, civil government and a smattering of other subjects, unless of course there was a school within walking distance for the older ones to attend. It would be good for them to learn social graces by interacting with other children their age.
“You got it.”
It was a moment before Marie realized he was speaking of driving the team. It had worked. Focusing on the children, what she’d need to do, had pulled her mind off him.
“You’re a quick learner,” he added with a nod.
A surprising jolt of happiness flashed inside her. “Thank you,” she said. “I was always quick at school. Actually Miss Wentworth said I may have been her best student ever. She said I had a natural ability.” Heat rose upon her cheeks. She was proud of her accomplishments, but hadn’t meant to sound so boastful. A part of her just wanted him to know she wasn’t a simpleton. Mainly because, even thinking of the children, the episode with the snake was still causing a good amount of mortification to fester inside her. Miss Wentworth would be appalled, too, to learn she’d let a man see her bare backside.
“I see,” he said. “And who is Miss Wentworth?”
Not being from Chicago, it made sense he would never have heard of Opal Wentworth. “She owns the Chicago School of Domestic Labor. Her training classes in all positions are renowned. It’s close to impossible to obtain a position without a certificate of completion within the city.”
He was looking at her somewhat curiously, as if she’d said something he didn’t quite believe.
“It’s true,” she said. “A certificate from Miss Wentworth’s opens doors.” A different sense overcame her, one of achievement, perhaps. It could be because she’d never driven a wagon before and was quite proud of herself for learning so quickly, or because she had graduated at the top of her class.
Then again, it could be because of something entirely different. She’d never been around a man so much before, and it was rather bewildering. All of her placements had been with married couples, but it had been the wives who’d managed the household help, including her.
Glancing forward, she attempted to keep her thoughts on their conversation. “Miss Wentworth said I was the best nursemaid she’d ever had the pleasure to train.”
“You don’t say,” he said.
She nodded. Perhaps if she convinced him of her nursemaid abilities, he could convince Mick Wagner that hiring her would be more beneficial than marrying her. She’d always believed earning a wage would be far more pleasurable than getting married. No matter what Sarah had suggested. “Yes,” Marie said proudly. “The best nursemaid ever.”
Several hours later her confidence was waning. The second day on the trail was better than the first, in many ways, but in others it was worse. The sun was boiling hot today. Sweat poured down Marie’s back and her temples throbbed. Stafford had taken the reins from her long before her arms had started to ache, but they did so now. Her entire body hurt from the endless bouncing, and she had to wonder if the heat and travels were getting to Stafford, too.
He kept taking off his hat and wiping at the sweat streaming down his forehead, and when someone asked for a drink of water, he never questioned it, just handed over the canteen.
The heat was taking a toll on the children, too. Their little faces were red and they drooped in the back of the wagon like a half dozen dandelions plucked from the ground. Marie’s confidence in coming up with a plan to ease their plight had plummeted. There was nothing she could do or offer that would relieve the heat.
At her suggestion, they’d all walked for a while, but that had been worse. At least beneath the canopy of the wagon the children were shielded from the glare of the sun.
“There’s a creek up ahead,” Stafford said, interrupting her thoughts. “We’ll stop there to water the animals and ourselves.”
A wave of thankfulness crashed over her. “That will be nice. This heat is deplorable.”
He frowned, but nodded.
Used to explaining the definition of words, she started, “Deplorable means—”
“I know what it means.”
Marie chose to ignore the bite in his tone. The heat was taxing, but she sensed it was more than the temperature getting to him. He’d turned quiet some time ago, almost brooding. It was just as well. His silence, that was. They’d conversed enough. While showing her how to drive the team, he’d talked about being little and how his father had taught him how to drive. He also shared that he was from Mississippi, where his family still lived. Then he’d started asking about her family, at which point she’d changed the subject and kept changing it every time he tried to bring it back up.
If necessary, she’d explain her history to Mick Wagner, but not to anyone else. There was no need to, and for her, it was better off left buried deep inside. She didn’t like how memories could befuddle a person’s mind, and the thought of telling him she’d been returned, twice, to the orphanage, made her stomach hurt. Especially after he’d told her about his family. That’s all she’d ever wanted. To be part of a family. She’d gotten that when the Meekers had hired her, and she wouldn’t give it up.
First one, then the other horse nickered, and Marie glanced around, but saw nothing but brown grass.
“They smell the water,” Stafford said. “It’s just over the hill.”
The next few minutes seemed to take hours, the hill they ambled up the tallest ever, but when they crested the peak and she saw the sparkling creek trailing along the floor of the valley below, the downward trek became endless. The children had moved to the front opening of the wagon, vying for a spot to gaze at the water with as much longing as the horses showed by their increased speed.
As the horses trudged closer, the creek grew larger and a touch of anxiety rose up to quell her excitement. The road they were on entered the water on one side and appeared again on the other side. She shivered slightly.
“There’s no bridge.”
“No, there’s not,” Stafford agreed. “But the water isn’t deep. We can cross safely this time of year. Springtime is a different story.”
She had no choice but to trust him, which actually was becoming easier and easier.
A chorus of voices over her shoulder asked if they could get wet, and as the wagons rolled to a stop a short distance from the water, Stafford answered, “Yes.” He then turned to her as he set the brake. “We’re going to unhitch the teams, let them cool off a bit. You and the children can go upstream a distance and cool off yourselves. Just not too far.”
Climbing on and off the wagon had grown a bit easier, too, now that she knew exactly where to step. Marie was down in no time and lifting the twins out of the back while the older children climbed out themselves.
“Can we get wet, like Stafford said?” Samuel asked hopefully.
She should have insisted the children continue to call him Mr. Burleson. Allowing them to call him Stafford was inappropriate, but in truth, she didn’t have the wherewithal to say a whole lot right now. She’d never been so hot and uncomfortable in her life.
“Yes,” she said. “But take your shoes off.”
They took off running and Marie didn’t have the heart to call them back, make them wait for her. So, instead, she ran, too. The water was crystal clear, and she could easily see the rocky bottom. Wasting no more time than the children, she removed her shoes and stockings, and entered the creek beside them, sighing at the heavenly coolness the water offered.
She held her skirt up, letting the water splash about her ankles, and kept vigilant eyes on the children as they eagerly ventured farther in. She’d never learned to swim, so the water made her nervous, but it was shallow, only up to the twins’ waists, and they were enjoying the experience wholeheartedly, as were the others.
It wasn’t long before a whoop sounded and Mr. Jackson flew past her like a wild man. Arms out, he threw himself face-first into the water and sank below, only to pop up moments later, laughing from deep in his lungs.
Samuel instantly copied the man’s actions, and that had everyone laughing all over again.
A hand caught hers and she twisted, ready to pull it away, for the heat was intense.
“Come on,” Stafford said, tugging slightly.
“No, this is deep enough,” she insisted.
“It’s barely up to your knees at the deepest point.” With his free hand, he pointed toward Mr. Jackson. “He’s sitting on the bottom and it’s not up to his shoulders.”
“He’s a tall man,” she explained.
Stafford laughed and let go of her hand, which left a sense of loneliness swirling around her. He was gone in an instant, out in the middle with all of the children and Mr. Jackson, splashing up tidal wave after tidal wave.
The air left Marie’s lungs slowly. She shouldn’t be staring, but Stafford had taken his shirt off. So had Mr. Jackson, but her eyes weren’t drawn to the other man as they were to Stafford. Dark hair covered his chest, and his shoulders and arms bulged. Muscles. She’d seen pictures of the male form in her studies, but goodness, none of those drawings had looked this...real.
Marie glanced away, downstream to where the horses stood in the water, drinking their fill, but that didn’t hold her attention. When she turned back, her gaze caught Stafford’s.
“Come on,” he said again, waving a hand as he now sat on the bottom with water swirling around his burly chest. “It feels great.”
The children joined in with his invitation, waving and begging her to join them. She could say no to him, but not to them. Dropping her skirt, for she couldn’t hoist it any higher, she edged toward the clapping and squeals.
And splashing. Water was flying in all directions, and it did feel wonderful. Then, all of a sudden, Marie went down. Though the water was shallow, she was completely submerged, her back thumping off the rocky creek bed.
Chapter Four (#ulink_b51c7701-1e47-5374-83dd-25b54610f64e)
Marie came up as quickly as she’d gone down, coughing, but it wasn’t until Stafford saw the laughter in her eyes that he let the air out of his chest. He tore his eyes away, a bit disgusted he’d been holding his breath. People could drown in just about any amount of water, he understood that, but there were enough of them around to prevent that. What irritated him was how every time he caught a glimpse of her air snagged in the middle of his chest and sat there until it burned.
She was a looker, he could admit that, and what he’d seen this morning kept flashing in his mind like heat lightning—a sudden flash that was nothing but an illusion.
He hadn’t been drawn in by looks in ages. Frustrated in ways he hadn’t been in years, either, he ducked beneath the water again and held his breath until his lungs had a reason to burn. When he surfaced, he stood and made his way to the shore. He’d said it before and thought it again while seeing her running to the stream with the children, but had to repeat it to himself once more. Marie looked like the kids’ older sister, barely more than a child herself.
It didn’t help. She was a woman. An attractive one who took her job seriously. He was also willing to admit, she did it well. Not one of those kids could make a peep without her responding immediately, and right now they were gathered around her as if she was the queen bee.
Stafford stepped out of the water and bent forward to shake the water from his hair before he made his way over to where he’d left his shirt, boots, socks and hat. Right next to hers. Her little bonnet lay there, too, and he ran a hand over it, testing the thickness of the fabric. Just as he’d suspected, it was nothing more than thin cotton that didn’t offer much relief from the sun. Not on a day like this.
He sat to pull on his socks and boots, and his gaze locked onto the game of water tag happening in the stream. He watched as Marie caught both twins, one in each arm, and planted kisses on their wet heads before she let them loose and chased after the two girls.
A smile tugged at his lips, and he let it form. He remembered days like this. When it was too hot to do much else, his family would head to the river and spend the day frolicking in the water. It had been fun, and something he hadn’t thought of in a long time. Crazy as it was, he felt a touch homesick.
Boots on, Stafford stood and shrugged into his shirt before he made his way to the wagons where he checked hubs and axels and anything else he could think of to keep his mind from wandering deeper down memory lane. He was trying, too, to keep his thoughts off Marie. In reality, that is what he should be thinking about, figuring out what she wanted with Mick, but when he did let her into his mind, Mick didn’t accompany her.
“I feel like a new man,” Jackson said, leading two of the horses out of the water.
“It felt good,” Stafford agreed.
“Good for those kids, too,” the other man said, handing over the reins. “I know how hard it is keeping them cooped up in a wagon.”
“You do?”
Jackson, already heading back to gather the other team, paused with his gaze on the group still splashing about. “Yeah. I got two boys, five and nine, we moved out here from Wisconsin last year. That was a long trip.”
Stafford hadn’t met the man prior to hiring him and figured it made sense, the man having kids, given the way he’d taken to Marie’s bunch so readily.
“My wife’s name is Marie, too.” Jackson laughed then. “Maybe it’s the name. Marie. I can’t say, but mine is the best wife ever. She’s a dream come true, and there’s few prettier. Although that one comes close.”
Stafford ignored the feelings nettling inside him, almost as if he didn’t want other men looking at Marie and commenting on how pretty she was. He’d felt that way once, about Francine, and was never going to do that to himself again.
Jackson retrieved the other horses, and as soon as the man approached, Stafford, still trying to gain control of his mind, asked, “What are your sons’ names?”
“Jack is the oldest and Henry the youngest.”
“Jack Jackson?” Stafford couldn’t help but ask, glad to have something his mind could snatch up. When they’d been introduced, the man had simply said to call him Jackson.
“No.” The other man laughed as he started hitching his team to the freight wagon. “Jackson’s just the name I go by. My real name is William Borgeson.”
Buckling harnesses, Stafford asked, “How do you get Jackson out of that?”
“My folks had nine girls before I came along. My father’s name was Jack, so the entire town took to calling me Jack’s son. It stuck. I was about ten before I learned my real name was William.”
“That’s an interesting story.”
The female voice, all soft and tender, caught Stafford so off guard he lost his hold on the drawbar yoke of the singletree harness, which promptly fell and smashed the big toe on his left foot. He almost cursed. The expletive didn’t leave his lips because his breath had caught again, sat there in his chest as though it didn’t have anything better to do than sting as sharply as his toe.
Marie was wet from top to bottom and was finger-combing her long hair over one shoulder. Her hands slid all the way to the ends, which hung near her waist, and her wet dress—once a pale blue, now much darker—and white pinafore clung to her in ways dresses shouldn’t cling. Not while he was looking, anyway.
“Thank you, Miss,” Jackson answered, hitching the yoke to the harness of his team. “Now that my father has passed on, the name has a bit more meaning for me, and it’s pretty much the only thing I answer to.” Chuckling he added, “Other than to my wife. She can call me anything she wants and I come a-running.”
Toe throbbing and lungs burning, Stafford wasn’t in any mood to hear how happily married the other man was, no matter how he got his name. He didn’t want to think of Marie being a wife, either, not to anyone. It would be nice, though, if his partner was here right about now. Then Stafford could wash his hands of this entire mess and not have to sit beside Marie for the next several hours.
“Get the kids loaded up,” he said, gruffly. “With any luck, we’ll be home before dark.”
Luck, it appeared, had left him so far behind he might never see it again. A couple of hours later, the freight wagon cracked a hub, and though they got it fixed, it was too late to take off again, even though he was so close to home he might be able to see it if they were atop a hill instead of in another river valley. And sitting next to Marie had been even more disagreeable than he’d imagined. This time, to keep the children occupied, with a sweet, perfect voice, she’d sung songs with them. Jaunty and silly tunes that had them all laughing and encouraging him to join in.
He hadn’t, of course, and he’d bitten his lip so many times to keep from grinning there probably wasn’t any skin left on his bottom one. His sister Camellia had been the singer in his family. She was married now, living down by Galveston, and he couldn’t help but wonder how she was doing.
It seemed everything had him thinking about his family, his home, and the bottom line was he didn’t like it. He’d rid himself of those memories at the same time he’d erased the ones of Francine and how she’d chosen Sterling over him. For ten years he’d gotten along fine without those reminiscences and didn’t need them back. The few times he’d seen his family since leaving home, he’d made new memories. They were enough.
Furthermore, it seemed to him that while he and Jackson had been working on the hub, Marie could have been gathering wood, lighting a fire and rustling up something for supper—the wagon was full of food. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d led the kids into the shade and sat there reading to them and watching as they wrote on their slates. Schooling was fine, but when there was work to be done, that’s what should come first.
“Terrance,” Stafford yelled as he replaced the tools in the box beneath the wagon seat. “You and Samuel gather some wood for a fire.”
The boys instantly jumped to follow his orders, but Marie stood, too, and took Terrance by the arm. Stafford was too far away to hear what she said, however, the way both Terrance and Samuel bowed their heads he caught the gist of it.
Sitting next to her for hours on end—including those while her hair and clothes dried, filling the hot air that had circled around him with a flowery scent—his mind bringing up memories as if it was turning the pages of an old book, not to mention the broken hub and the heat, had taken their toll. Usually a tolerant man—well somewhat tolerant—he couldn’t put up with anything else. Shoving the box back in place he marched toward the trees.
She met him at the fringe of the shade. “I will not allow—”
His growl caused her to pause, but not for long.
After taking a breath she continued. “Have you forgotten what happened this morning?” she asked, red faced and snippy. “The snake?”
He’d be dead in his grave and still remembering everything about the snake incident. Taking out his gun, he stepped around the children and fired all six bullets into the underbrush. He spun around as the echoes were still bouncing. The two girls were peeking out from behind Marie with their hands over their ears, while the boys were clapping and grinning.
Stafford nodded to them before he lifted his gaze to her. “If there were any snakes, they’re hightailing it for safer ground now.” He holstered his gun. “Terrance, you and Samuel gather some wood.”
The boys looked up at Marie. Stafford noticed that out of the corner of his eyes. The rest of his gaze was locked on hers in a rather steely battle. Her glare didn’t waver, therefore, he narrowed his eyes and gave her a good hard stare.
It took a moment or two, but eventually, with a slow lowering of those long lashes, she glanced toward the two waiting boys. “Stay together and watch for snakes.”
“Yes’um,” they agreed, flying around him.
While Stafford took a moment to breathe—yes, he’d been holding his breath again—Marie sent the other children off toward the wagons with a few gentle words before her glare returned to him.
“That was not necessary,” she seethed between clenched teeth.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “If you’d have thought to gather firewood, I wouldn’t have found it necessary to ask.”
A frown flashed upon her brows. “Thought to gather firewood? Why would I have thought of that?”
“To build a fire?” he asked mockingly.
“For what? It’s still a hundred degrees out. No one’s cold.”
She couldn’t possibly be this dense. “To cook on?” he asked, half wondering if it really was a question.
Pausing, as if gathering her thoughts, she said, “Oh.”
“You do know what that is?” he asked. “Cooking?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
“Then why didn’t you?” he asked as she started walking toward the wagons. Stafford hadn’t completely expected her to cook, yet it seemed to him that most women would have. Catching up to her, he asked, “Why didn’t you prepare supper while we fixed the wagon?”
She stopped and hands on her hips, glared at him again. “Because I am a nursemaid, Mr. Burleson, not a cook.”
He didn’t miss the emphasis she put on his name. “So?”
“So, nursemaids don’t cook.”
Realization clicked inside his head. Maybe luck was on his side. “Don’t or can’t?”
She continued to glare.
“I thought you graduated at the top of your class.”
“I did. Nursemaid classes.”
“And feeding children isn’t part of taking care of them?” He shook his head then, even as another question formed. “Who do you think will be cooking for the children once we arrive at my—M-Mick’s house?”
“The cook, of course.”
Stafford took great pleasure in stating, “Mick doesn’t have a cook.”
Her expression was a cross between shock and horror. “He doesn’t?”
“Nope.” Having hot meals waiting for him at home was just one of the many things Mick proclaimed a wife would do, and knowing that wasn’t about to happen had Stafford’s mood growing more cheerful by the second.
“Who cooks for him?”
“He cooks for himself.” Seeing her frown deepening had Stafford adding, “Once in a while he eats over at my place.”
“Your place?”
He nodded.
“I thought you said—” She stopped to square her shoulders. “Don’t you live with Mick—Mr. Wagner?”
Shoot, he’d forgotten about that. Then he’d been too happy to see her look of shock to explain everything fully. “We live on the same ranch, in different houses.”
Frowning, she said, “Oh,” and then asked, “Who cooks for you?”
The older boys had brought an armload of wood to Jackson, who was busy digging a fire hole, and Stafford started walking that way. “Me.”
Marie was certain her stomach had landed on the ground near her heels. Her entire being sagged near there, too. No cook? That possibility had never occurred to her. Everyone had a cook. Everyone she’d ever worked for, anyway. Miss Wentworth had assured her it would be that way. Nursemaids weren’t expected to cook.
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Lauri Robinson
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: One mail-order bride in need of rescue! All the rigorous training in the world could not have prepared nursemaid Marie Hall for trailing the wilds of Dakota with six orphans. Especially when her ingenious plan—to pose as the mail-order bride of the children’s next of kin—leads Marie to the wrong cowboy! Proud and stubborn, Stafford Burleson is everything Marie’s been taught to avoid. But with her fate and that of the children in his capable hands, Marie soon feels there’s something incredibly right about this rugged rancher and his brooding charm.... “A delightful western…humor, realism and sweet emotion.” —RT Book Reviews on Inheriting a Bride