Smoke River Bride Read online

  Instantly Edith looked stricken and she dropped her gaze to her buttoned-up shoes. Thad kept talking, and the two of them kept moving back and forth to the music. Edith’s cheeks reddened and her lips pressed together, and then he bent down again and said something else. This time she nodded and laughed.

  Teddy poked Leah’s arm. “What’s Pa talkin’ to her for? She doesn’t know anything. She’s just a dumb girl.”

  The fiddle music stopped. Thad escorted Edith back to her mother and started across the floor toward Leah and Teddy again. He was smiling.

  Leah touched Teddy’s hunched shoulder. “I suspect that your father has smoothed some ruffled feathers.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Here he comes.” She rose to meet him.

  “Leah, would you take my whiskey glass over to the bar and see if you can get whoever’s there to refill it? I need to speak to Teddy.”

  The bar Thad referred to consisted of two wide planks propped on sawhorses, crammed with all shapes and sizes of bottles, some with labels, some without. Leah wove her way through the crowd and at last reached the short, chunky man posted behind it as bartender. Seth Ruben, she recalled. Darla Weatherby’s brother-in-law. Leah had been introduced to him at the mercantile week before last.

  She produced the empty glass and held it out. “Mr. Ruben, could you refill this, please?”

  The man’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and a scowl twisted his face. “I could, but I’m not goin’ to. Don’t serve Celestials at this bar.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The bartender stared at Leah so long she wondered if a fly was crawling across her nose. Then he drew himself up, puffed his chest out and shook his head.

  Perhaps she had not heard him correctly over the music. “Mr. Ruben? Please, would—”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, it’s not for me, it’s for my husband.”

  “I said no. ‘No’ means not a chance in hell.”

  Leah blinked. “But—”

  “Bar’s closed,” he snapped. “At least to Celestials. Now, git!”

  She gaped at the rotund little man. “That is unfair,” she said in a quiet voice. She could not tell if he had heard her, but he avoided meeting her eyes. Squashing down the stab of pain in her chest, she turned her back on him and recrossed the floor.

  Thad took one look at her face and the empty glass in her hand and jerked to his feet, fists clenched.

  “Don’t, Thad. Don’t make a scene and spoil the Jensens’ party.”

  “I damn well will make a—”

  She grabbed at his shirtsleeve. “Do not,” she murmured.

  Teddy tugged on his father’s pants leg. “You sure look mad, Pa. What’cha gonna do?”

  Leah waited, watching the muscles in Thad’s jaw flex as he ground his teeth.

  “Pa?”

  She leaned down to the boy. “Do not ask him anything right now, Teddy. Your father is…thinking.”

  “Thinkin’ ’bout what?”

  “Oh, about…some more fences that might need mending.”

  “We don’t have no broken fences! I know, ’cuz I check ’em out with Pa every spring.”

  Thad was paying no attention to their exchange, but Leah could tell something was on his mind. His mouth had firmed into a flat, unsmiling line.

  “I’ll be right back, Leah.” Deliberately he moved off toward the refreshment table.

  “Gosh,” Teddy grumbled. “Pa’s been real funny ever since Ma died.”

  Leah’s chest tightened. “That must have been a hard time for you both.”

  “Ever’body tried to help. That sewing lady, she brought pies and things most every day.”

  “You mean Verena Forester? The seamstress?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I didn’t like her one bit.”

  “But,” Leah murmured, “your father apparently did.”

  “He never said nuthin’,” Teddy mumbled. “And anyway, when Pa asked if I liked her, I told him no, ’cuz that was the truth. After that, she stopped comin’.”

  Leah clenched her hands in her lap. That explained more than Teddy could ever know about her marriage to Thad.

  In the next moment a small blonde girl in a ruffled yellow gingham pinafore marched up to Teddy.

  “M-Manette,” he spluttered. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I came with Maman and Papa and Uncle Rooney.”

  “I thought Mr. Rooney was yer grandpa.”

  “Oui, he is, but he likes me to call him Uncle Rooney, anyway. Do you want to dance with me?”

  “Can’t,” Teddy said quickly. “Don’t know how.”

  For a long minute Manette’s blue eyes assessed him in silence, then she reached out and grasped both his hands. “Come with me. I will teach you.”

  Manette half dragged him onto the dance floor. At the edge of the circling couples, she demonstrated a very simple pattern of dance steps—two forward and two back. He tried it out a few times, but before he could fit it to the music, a male voice rose over the din.

  “Choose yer partners for Star of the Sea.” People began to scramble about the floor, forming squares of four couples each.

  “One couple needed over here,” the caller yelled. Thad reappeared and grabbed Leah’s hand. Apparently he had dealt with the bartender a bit roughly—his knuckles were scraped. Without a word, he pulled her halfway across the floor to fill out the square.

  Leah glanced at the couple across from them and went cold all over. Carl Ness stood with his wife, Linda-Lou, who immediately narrowed her eyes. On her left, a scowling Seth Ruben, with a telltale bruise forming on one cheek, slouched next to his frail-looking silver-haired partner; she pursed her thin lips and averted her gaze.

  And, oh heavens, to her right was a hardeyed Whitey Poletti, partnered with Verena Forester. The dressmaker stared at Leah as if she had red spots all over her face, then shifted her gaze to Thad and smiled.

  But then, to Leah’s horror, each of the three other couples in the set turned their backs and stalked away, leaving Leah and Thad standing alone on the dance floor. As she passed, Verena slowed her steps to mutter, “You’re not good enough for him. You don’t belong here.”

  Stunned, Leah could think of nothing to say. Thad protectively circled his arm about her waist and swept her off the floor past the whispering crowd. “Looks like things are coming to a head,” he murmured.

  “At least,” Leah said in a tear-clogged voice, “they are not throwing melon rinds and rotten eggs at me as they did in my village in China. But tonight I think I would prefer melon rinds and rotten—”

  “Yeah,” Thad agreed. “At least it’s more honest.”

  Neither of them spoke on the drive back to the ranch. Even Teddy seemed subdued. Leah relived the deliberate rudeness of the townspeople over and over in her mind. Part of her could not believe people could be so blatant about their dislike of her. Another part saw the insults for what they were—fear of anyone who looked different. Even so, that knowledge did not ease the lancelike wound in her heart.

  When they reached the ranch, Thad strode off to the barn without a word of explanation. Leah clamped her jaw tight.

  Could he not see her distress? He was acting more like a Chinese husband—remote and preoccupied—than an American one. Perhaps it was true that all men were the same: when confronted with a threat, they stormed off to fight whatever it was.

  Leah sighed over the sharp rock lodged in her throat. Her mother always said reasoning with people was more effective than using fists, but she was learning that reasoning was much harder.

  She choked back tears, tumbled into bed and curled up into a ball. After what felt like hours waiting for Thad, she fell asleep.

  Thursday was Leah’s weekly baking day. Thad tramped out to the barn to doctor a lame foot on his horse, and a glowering Teddy had gone off to school, so she was alone. She had just set four loaves of bread to rise when a gentle tap sounded on the front door.

  Oh,
no, not Teddy with another bloody nose. Cautiously she swung the door open to find an attractive, sun-browned woman in a blue wool skirt and knitted shawl. Leah recognized her at once—she was the woman who had stood up with her at the wedding.

  “Bonjour, madame. I have come for a tête-à-tête.”

  “A what? I do not understand.”

  The woman smiled. “A ‘lady visit.’ That is what we say in France.”

  Leah resisted the sudden impulse to hug the woman and eagerly motioned her inside. Her guest stepped into the living room and glanced around approvingly.

  “You remember me, I hope? I am Jeanne Halliday. Jeanne Nicolet before I marry my husband, Colonel Halliday. Your son’s friend, Manette Nicolet, is my daughter.”

  “Oh, of course. Please sit down. Would you like some tea?”

  “Oui, merci. Now I will tell you why I come. My husband and I attended Monsieur Jensen’s dance in the barn last Saturday night. We saw what happened, and I came to speak with you.”

  Leah could only stare at her.

  “I think you are very strong not to scream at Monsieur Ruben and those rude ladies who walked away from your dancing square. Square dance,” she amended.

  At the sink, Leah pumped water into the teakettle. “I did want to scream. But there are already enough people in Smoke River who dislike me. I did not want to add more.”

  “Alors, I understand. It is because you—and I—we are considered ‘different.’ When I first came to Smoke River, no one at all would speak to me.”

  Leah set the kettle on the stove while Jeanne settled herself at the kitchen table. “I am glad you came, Mrs. Halliday.”

  “Bon! To friends, I am Jeanne. We shall be good friends, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oh, yes, I hope so! I…I—” She gulped, afraid she would cry and disgrace herself. She blinked away the tears that stung her eyelids. “I feel so alone in Smoke River. I want so much to fit in, but the only woman who is friendly is Ellie Johnson, the schoolteacher.”

  “Of course. Madame Johnson is from the city of Boston. She knows something of the world beyond Smoke River. As I do.”

  Leah set a cup of tea before her guest and Jeanne stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar. “Now we talk about the men, eh? Your husband and my husband, they are much alike. Independent, am I correct?”

  “And stubborn,” Leah added with a smile.

  Jeanne laughed. “And, how do you say, one-minded.”

  “Single-minded. Exactly.”

  “Let us be frank. Men in Oregon are not like men in other places. And our husbands—”

  A laugh burbled out of Leah’s mouth. “Our husbands are definitely Oregon men.”

  “Vraiment!”

  “We are trapped.”

  “Ah, non.” Jeanne gave her an assessing look. “Say instead that we are happy.”

  “Happy? Oh, Mrs.—Jeanne, I wish that were true. I am finding life here in the West very…well, difficult.”

  “Ah, je comprends. But our men—my husband, Wash, and your husband—they love us. Many women are not so fortunate. Do you know Mrs. Sorensen?”

  Leah shook her head.

  “No? Ah, well. I say we are not trapped. We are understood and we are respected by the people who matter most—our bons hommes. Our good men.”

  Leah fervently wished that would be true of Teddy, as well. Perhaps that would come in time, but she was losing hope. At times she sensed a hesitant warmth in the boy’s eyes, but mostly, winning his approval felt like a long climb uphill.

  Jeanne finished her tea, studied the halfknitted muffler on the settee and folded her hands on the table. “I wish to invite you to join the Ladies’ Knitting Circle. We meet at the dressmaker’s shop, upstairs in her apartment, on Saturday afternoon.”

  “You mean Verena Forester’s shop? Oh, I do not think…You see, Verena does not like me.”

  “That is possible, yes.” Jeanne took a careful sip. “But more likely she is merely jealous.”

  Leah’s cup clattered onto the saucer. “Jealous? I thought she just didn’t like me. Why would—?”

  Jeanne cleared her throat. “She is jealous because you have Monsieur MacAllister, and she does not.”

  Leah sat without speaking for a full minute while Jeanne poured them both more tea.

  “Jeanne, are you sure my husband is the reason?”

  “Oui, I am sure. It is simple. Verena wants what you have, but because of you, she cannot have him.”

  And then the Frenchwoman said something that made Leah’s breath catch. “Mademoiselle Forester has always wanted Thad. Even when he was married to Hattie.”

  Leah suddenly found herself smiling at her guest. “I think the Ladies’ Knitting Circle sounds very nice. I will come.”

  Jeanne touched the rim of her teacup to Leah’s. “Bon. My husband would say you have the grit.”

  Grit? Leah rolled the word around in her head. Did she really? Did she have enough of “the grit” to carve out a place for herself in Smoke River? A place where she belonged? Where she fit in?

  She was used to being an outsider—it had been the same in China. Because of her parents’ mixed marriage, she was not accepted as either Chinese or as white. Instead, she’d been shunned. Leah Cameron was the White Devil’s daughter.

  Jeanne took her leave an hour later. Leah punched down her bowls of rising bread with extra vigor, then sat by the fireplace to think. Saturday night’s exclusion at the barn dance had hurt.

  In Luzhai the villagers had called her Juk Sing—Miss Nobody. What did the Smoke River townspeople call her behind her back?

  Then again, perhaps she did not want to know.

  She’d thought it would be different here in America. Did not the Americans have their Bill of Rights? And did not their Declaration of Independence say that all men are created equal?

  Her mind buzzing, she automatically washed and dried the tea things and shoved the carefully shaped loaves into the hot oven. By the time the crusty bread was baked and set in the pantry to cool, Leah had steadied her unease and felt a surge of hope.

  She also had the beginnings of a plan.

  Thad tramped around the perimeter of the three acres of winter wheat he’d watched struggle to life, breathing in air that smelled of green grass. For weeks the field had looked like a huge square of fuzzy green carpet, but over the last few days of early spring sunshine, the seedlings had burst into life and now began stretching tentatively toward the sky.

  He leaned one hip on the split-rail fence to admire it. When the light hit it just right, it looked like a luminous patch of golden mist hovering over a still, yellow-green lake. He’d never seen anything more beautiful. Or more promising. Looking at it brought deep-down pleasure. And, he acknowledged, maybe a feeling of invincibility. Might be irrational, but there it was.

  It grew harder and harder for him to stay away from this field. Each day it looked different—taller—as the tiny fingers of wheat reached toward the sun. The stalks looked frail, vulnerable, but his gut told him he was doing the right thing. Farmers in Washington Territory to the north were getting rich shipping wheat all over the country. Why not here in Oregon?

  He turned away toward the pasture gate and the hard knot of apprehension in his belly returned. He had to admit it wasn’t just about the wheat; it was about Leah.

  Hell and damn. He was blundering through the days like a lovesick boy, falling more in love with her with each passing hour. At the same time, his fear of once again having something snatched away from him ate at his gut.

  The realization shook him to his bones. He had no idea how to protect himself from loving a woman. If he ever lost Leah, as he had lost Hattie…Heaven help him.

  His throat tightened. Somehow he knew he had to keep Leah at a distance.

  He tramped up to the front door and into the small house she had transformed from four gloomy, gray walls into a sunlit haven of peace. Every time he walked inside, that fear bit into his gut. All of this—his wife, his wheat fi
eld—could be wiped out in a single second.

  The house seemed unnaturally quiet, and then he remembered Leah was visiting Ellie Johnson, the schoolteacher. He had thought about taking Teddy fishing for trout in Swine Creek, but the boy had already made plans with Harvey Poletti, the lad who’d bloodied his nose a month ago. He knew he should spend more time with Teddy, but maybe it was better for his son to make friends.

  Restless, Thad roamed through The kitchen, the living room and finally, against his better judgment, ended up in the bedroom. The quilt, the pillows, even the striped yellow window curtains smelled like Leah, a lemony scent with a hint of soap. Hell, he loved everything about her.

  He stalked out onto the front porch and strained his eyes in the direction of the road. He needed to do something to keep his mind off Leah; maybe he’d ride over to the Halliday place and ask about Matt’s new colt. Teddy’s birthday was coming in April. It didn’t take a genius to figure out his boy wanted a horse of his own.

  Teddy’s eighth birthday fell on a dry, warm day in mid-April. Matt Johnson had brought the roan colt over on a lead the night before, and Thad had hid it in the barn. He could hardly wait until morning.

  At breakfast, Leah poured him a second mug of coffee and he leaned forward in his chair to fold his hands around it.

  “Teddy, could you help me out this morning?”

  The boy’s face brightened. “Sure, Pa.”

  “Go on out to the barn and, um, check Lady over before Leah rides into town today.”

  The boy gobbled down the rest of his pancake and streaked out to the door to the barn. He returned in under a minute and threw himself into Thad’s arms, knocking the mug of fresh coffee all over the breakfast table.

  Leah did not care. She laughed while she mopped up the spill and exchanged looks with Thad. Hidden behind a hay bale in the new colt’s stall was a brand-new boy-size leather saddle.

  Teddy was so excited he could not stop talking. “Pa, he’s just the most beautifulest horse in the whole world and I’m gonna call him Red and please kin I ride him today?”