Smoke River Bride Read online

  After breakfast, a preoccupied Thad tramped off, then reversed direction and came back for Teddy.

  “Gosh, Pa, I thought you forgot me, again.”

  Thad ruffled the boy’s hair and together they went to inspect the fields.

  Leah knew the alfalfa and wheat seedlings were struggling through the winter storms, and that the wheat especially worried him. There was so much to do on a farm besides grow things—caring for the horses and the milk cow, now heavy with a calf; rebuilding damaged fences; repairing the chicken house, where the wind had torn off slats. Thad had even found time to turn over the soil for the kitchen garden she planned for spring.

  Last night, as he was rubbing liniment on her sore muscles, he had talked about his wheat. She knew he had borrowed money on the ranch to finance the experimental venture. It meant everything to him, and she was beginning to understand why. Not just because it was a challenge and a far-seeing experiment, but because it was something concrete Thad felt he could control in an uncertain world. A world where a runaway train could kill a man’s wife.

  He told her again about watching his Scottish family struggle against starvation when he was a boy. Thad had been scarred by that. He tried to hide it, even from himself, but his fear still lived deep inside him. Whole days went by when he stared into the fire and ignored both her and Teddy.

  She tried not to let his withdrawal bother her, but her heart ached for Teddy. Thad’s young son could not understand his father’s bone-deep concern for something as simple as a field of sprouting wheat. At times she wondered if Thad himself understood it completely.

  Whether or not he did, she had her own challenges to face. she could not bother Thad when he was working long, long hours in the fields; today, she resolved, she must saddle up Lady on her own and ride into town to visit the mercantile.

  The minute she’d made the decision she suppressed a shudder. Could she really do it? Could she once again haul the heavy saddle up on top of that huge animal?

  Very carefully, Leah drew rein near the hitching rail in front of the mercantile and let out a breath of relief. She had done it! Saddled the mare and ridden all the way into town on her own without falling off.

  The barber, Whitey Poletti, was sweeping the board walkway in front of his shop. Last week Ellie had told her about the daily sweeping contest between Whitey and Carl Ness, the mercantile owner. It had continued for years, and this morning it seemed the barber was beating Carl in the race to finish first.

  She bunched up the long gray melton skirt she wore, kicked her foot free of the stirrups and dismounted. Before leaving the barn this morning, she had practiced it four times, but she still had to think out every move.

  Mr. Poletti planted his broom in front of her and leaned one white-coated arm against it.

  Leah nodded at him. “Good morning, Mr. Poletti.”

  “No, t’aint,” he snapped. “Yer standin’ right where I was sweepin’.”

  “I am sor—”

  “Nah, you ain’t. Don’t know our customs, can’t talk our language, ner nuthin’,” he muttered under his breath. “Damned foreigners.”

  “—rry,” Leah finished. The broom bristles poked at her boots.

  She drew her frame up as straight as she could. “You will notice, Mr. Poletti, that I speak perfect English.” She struggled to keep her voice even. “My father was an American. A teacher.”

  “Move!” he ordered. “Yer in my way.”

  “Oh, I had not noticed.” She enunciated each syllable with extra care. “I beg your pardon.” She turned toward the mercantile entry.

  “Huh!” the barber snorted at her back. “Damned Celest—”

  The bell over the mercantile door covered the barber’s last word. Carl Ness glanced up from the newspaper spread on his counter; without the faintest glimmer of a smile or even a nod of recognition, he immediately looked down again.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ness.”

  The store owner kept on reading. Leah shifted from one foot to the other. Twice. Still he did not speak; he did not even look at her. Instead he kept his sharp, narrow face bent so low she could see the bald spot under the wisps of sandy hair on his head.

  “Mr. Ness?”

  The shopkeeper slammed the flat of his hand onto the newspaper. “What do you want?”

  All at once she remembered her first visit to the mercantile. Carl Ness hated Celestials. The scowl on his face said it all. He hated her because she looked Chinese.

  “Mr. Ness,” she persisted, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard throughout the store. “I came to purchase some fabric. For a skirt I intend to sew.”

  “So?”

  “You carry bolts of fabric, do you not?”

  “Yep.” Leah gritted her teeth. “May I see some?”

  The mercantile owner glared at her without speaking, and her pulse began to throb at her temple. The man was being deliberately rude. Well, she could be just as deliberate.

  “Never mind, Mr. Ness.” She swept her gaze over the empty aisles. “I can see how busy you are this morning. I will find the bolts myself.”

  She pivoted away from the counter and marched up and down the aisles of shovels and skillets and lanterns until she found what she wanted. Bolts of wool, blue denim, and a variety of calico prints were stacked high on one shelf. Denim, she decided. And the red calico for a shirtwaist.

  She muscled the heavy bolts off the shelf, returned to the counter, where Mr. Ness was still bent over his newspaper, and dumped the load next to the black iron cash register.

  “Five yards of the denim, please. And three of the calico.”

  Ness shuffled a few feet to his left, lifted a large pair of scissors tied to the counter with a grimy string, and measured out the fabric along a yardstick nailed to The counter edge. With a vicious twist of his bony arms he ripped off the measured yardage. The sound jarred her nerves almost to the breaking point.

  “That’ll be seventy-five cents.”

  “Please add it to the MacAllister account.”

  “Thad MacAllister don’t have an account here,” Ness stated.

  Stunned, Leah stared at him. “Why, of course he has an—”

  “Not anymore, he doesn’t.” The mercantile owner shuffled back to his newspaper.

  Leah slapped her palm down on the counter so hard it stung, but she got his attention. “My husband does have an account at the mercantile, Mr. Ness. And you will please add this purchase to it.”

  She reached out, spun the wheel of brown wrapping paper next to the cash register, tore off a length and neatly bundled up her fabric. Ness stared at her, but she swept past him to the entrance.

  The jangle of bells on the door mocked the words echoing in her brain. Her father’s words. Turn the other cheek.

  No! This time she could not follow Father’s teaching. This time she was here in Smoke River where she was fighting to belong, and this time she would fight back!

  Furiously Leah pumped the sewing machine treadle up and down with her foot and struggled to tamp down her anger. When the blue denim gradually turned into a four-gore Western-style work skirt, her frown began to lift. By the time she cut out pieces for the red calico shirtwaist, using her old one as a pattern, she had calmed down enough to unclench her jaw and let herself cry it out. She basted and wept for an entire hour.

  At dusk Thad tramped in, followed by Teddy, who had been out clearing weeds from her kitchen garden. Thad took one look at her reddened nose and swollen eyes and swore aloud.

  “Carl Ness, is it?”

  Leah nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Heard about it from Whitey Poletti next door.” Thad laid his hand briefly on her hunched shoulder. “I let Carl know he won’t get away with insulting you.” He chuckled deep in his throat. “One was all it took.”

  She blinked. “One what?” Thad looked up at the ceiling, down at the plank floor, anywhere but at her. When he spoke she had to strain to hear him.

  “One, um, punch.
Straight to his gut.”

  “Oh, Thad, you shouldn’t—”

  “Yes, I should, Leah. I had to.” He chuckled again. “Sure felt good.”

  By Christmas, Leah’s life had settled into a work schedule for cleaning the house, doing the farm chores that fell to her and helping Teddy with his homework. On Mondays she hauled the tin washtub into the side yard, built a fire in the pit Thad had dug and filled with bricks, and boiled the mud and grime out of their jeans and shirts and smallclothes and her own work skirts and aprons.

  Tuesdays she heated the two sadirons on the stove and ironed everything except for her pink silk night robe. That she smoothed by hand and hung by the fireplace. Wednesdays she mended Teddy’s jean pockets and frayed knees and Thad’s split shoulder seams, and cut and sewed new striped-ticking skirts and lawn shirtwaists for the warm weather she prayed would come soon. the cold, dreary winter months were eating away at her spirits.

  Thursday was baking day. By noon, eight fragrant loaves of bread crowded the kitchen table, and by evening at least one apple pie or dried-peach cobbler was bubbling in the oven. On Fridays, Leah sewed and later sat hemming her new garments in the armchair by the fire. She was also knitting a muffler for Thad. Red, for good luck.

  Each week was a repeat of the one before. She cooked and scrubbed floors and swept the kitchen and the porch, made up the beds with clean sheets, dusted and straightened Teddy’s loft, and put out clean towels.

  She liked the work. She liked the house. And she especially liked her new family. Teddy was still resentful to the point of being rude, but every so often she caught him gazing at her with a puzzled look in his eyes. Perhaps he was inching toward accepting her.

  She genuinely liked Thad’s young son. He was bright and curious, and deep down, she suspected he could be as kind and caring as his father. At least the boy’s gibes at her were now spread over days instead of hours.

  Each chilly morning Thad tramped out to the barn before dawn to milk the cow and feed the horses, and Teddy dragged himself off to school. All day Thad worked in the fields and did not return until after dark. Leah sat by the fireplace, waiting for the sound of her husband’s boots on the porch steps and thinking about her life, and about Thad—how his voice lapsed into a Scots burr when he was angry. How soft his mustache felt against her bare neck at night, and how his warm breath caressed her skin into shivers when they lay like two spoons, her back to his chest.

  She bent forward to bite off a thread. Lately she had begun to want more at night than his arm casually draped across her waist and his soft breathing near her ear. The fantasies she conjured while sewing by the fire made her blush.

  But each night she lay in the big double bed beside a man who was not just tired but silent. Distant. She wished he would touch her as he had the nights he had rubbed her back with liniment. Or kiss her, as he had done months ago. Weeks went by but he never did.

  Now she heard a step on the porch and her heart sped up. Quickly she laid aside the skirt she was hemming and raced to the door. But when she swung it open, it was not Thad who lurched into the room; it was Teddy.

  Blood dribbled out of both nostrils, down his shirt and onto his jacket front. One eye was swollen and turning purple, and he was trying hard to choke back sobs.

  “Teddy! What happened?” She pulled him across to the fireplace and started to unbutton his jacket.

  “Got into a fight,” he muttered.

  “Are you hurt?” She pressed her scrunchedup apron to his bloody nose. “Let me see your eye.”

  The boy tipped his face up and Leah gasped. It was worse than she’d thought; one side of his face and forehead, including his eye socket, was shadowed by a dark, spreading bruise.

  She untied her apron and stuffed it into his scraped hands. “Hold this tight against your nose.” From the kitchen she brought a huck towel dipped in cold water, then pushed him down into the big armchair and laid the compress on his face.

  “How did this happen?”

  Teddy drew in a shaky breath. “I punched Harvey Poletti an’ he punched me back. Lots of times.”

  “You mean you two had a fight?”

  His thin shoulders slumped. “Dunno how to fight. I just kept hitting back. I hit Edith Ness, too.”

  “Edith? But Edith is only six. And she is a girl. Teddy, you should never hit a girl.” Leah lifted the folded towel from his swollen face, swung it in the air to cool it and gently replaced it.

  “Pa’s gonna lay me out somethin’ awful.”

  “Was the fight your fault?”

  “Well, guess I kinda started it when I punched Harvey.”

  “Teddy, why did you hit him?”

  The boy tried to look away with his one good eye. “’Cuz he said somethin’.”

  “Said what? What did Harvey Poletti say?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  In the silence that followed Leah heard the hiss and pop of the log fire, the lid rattling on her simmering kettle of soup and the ragged breathing of the battered boy in front of her.

  What should she say?

  Torn between concern for Teddy and fear of what Thad might do to the boy, she worried her fingers into a knot. She wasn’t Teddy’s mother; she wasn’t even a real wife yet. Most of all she knew she should not come between a father and his son.

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  The boy groaned. “My shoulder’s kinda sore, an’ Edith kicked me in the shin real hard.”

  “Oh, my. Let me see.”

  He pulled up his pant leg so Leah could check the angry red mark on his shin and the dried blood on the reddened scrape. She had just started into the kitchen for another towel when she heard Thad’s boots on the porch.

  The instant the door opened, Teddy leaped out of the armchair and threw himself against his father’s legs.

  “What’s this, now?”

  “He’s hurt,” Leah called from the sink. “He had a fight at school.”

  Thad bent over his son. “That right?” The boy wrapped his arms around Thad’s neck and his father clasped his thin body.

  “Ow! My shoulder hurts.”

  “You want to tell me about it, son?”

  “No. But I guess I got to, huh?”

  Leah flitted distractedly about the kitchen while Teddy sobbed out the whole story. She noticed that he left out whatever it was the Poletti boy had said that had started off the tussle.

  Thad did not press him to explain, and after a while the two of them disappeared. Oh, no! Thad would not whip him, would he?

  She heard their raised voices on the porch and, after a while, Thad’s low chuckle. When they came inside for supper, Teddy was grinning.

  “Guess what, Leah? Pa’s gonna teach me how to fight.”

  She nodded and caught Thad’s gaze. “Turn the other cheek” apparently did not always work out here in this rough country. At that moment she made a decision of her own. She would teach Teddy the tricks she had learned to protect herself from the village bullies back in China. She would not tell Thad what she was doing—she would just do it.

  As soon as the dishes were washed and put away, she crawled into bed and lay planning what maneuvers to show Teddy, and sorting out her mixed feelings about her marriage.

  She liked Thad more than she had ever liked a man before, but he did puzzle her. She thought he liked her, but after that one night when he had kissed her, he had never approached her the way a husband would approach his wife.

  Why? Was it only his preoccupation with the wheat field? With each passing day the question grew more insistent.

  Now she could hear thumping sounds coming from the living room, and Thad’s voice, then more bumps that sounded like something hitting the floor. Then Teddy groaned, and Leah didn’t relax until she heard his bubbling laughter and Thad’s low voice saying something.

  She curled up into a ball and closed her eyes. She had no right to fault Thad for anything. Even if he thought marrying her had been a mistake, he had sa
ved her from a life of bondage, rescued her from a fate she could scarcely imagine, and given her not only his name, but a home and a purpose.

  The man was an overworked, worried rancher with a growing son. She had no right to feel lonely; she was simply not included in Thad’s careworn life. Perhaps all American wives were treated the same.

  Hours later she felt Thad’s weight beside her. She rolled toward him, seeking his warmth. “Is Teddy all right?”

  “Sure he is.”

  “Are you all right?” She held her breath, but he did not answer her question.

  “Know what I think?” he said after a moment.

  “No. What?”

  “I think you have a champion knight, like Ivanhoe.”

  “What? I do not understand.”

  Thad laid his hand on the back of her neck, swept aside her hair and pressed his lips just below her earlobe. “Teddy’s fight was about you.”

  “Oh.” She knew that much; she had not expected Teddy to tell Thad. “But Teddy does not like me. He resents my presence.”

  Thad gave a short laugh. “Could be that when you read about Ivanhoe you’re teaching him something about chivalry. Seems the Poletti boy said something insulting about you, and Teddy smacked him in the mouth so hard he’s got tooth scrapes on his knuckles.”

  Leah twisted toward him. “You are proud of him!”

  “I am that.”

  “Oh, no. Thad, we cannot allow him—”

  “Aye, we can, lass. ’Tis what all redblooded Scotsmen would do—protect their women.”

  Thad propped himself up on one elbow so he could see Leah’s face. Something was different tonight. He couldn’t put his finger on it, just…something about her seemed…well, softer. More vulnerable.

  Hell and damnation, you randy fool! She’d been waiting since their wedding night a month ago to be a wife in more than name.

  He pulled her close and then his breathing stopped.

  Deep down he wasn’t sure she still wanted him, at least not the way he wanted her. Worse, he wasn’t sure what he would let himself do about it, even if she did want him.