Western Spring Weddings Page 6

  * * *

  Gray forgot everything but the feel of the woman he held in his arms. Something smelled real sweet, maybe her hair. It was dark and shiny, and she wore it gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Kinda old-maidish, but she sure didn’t seem like one. Clarissa Seaforth might be an overly proper Boston lady, but in his arms she just felt like a woman—soft and alive.

  Surprisingly alive. Surprisingly arousing, if he were honest with himself. He’d never felt such an undercurrent of can’t-ignore-it desire. He decided to ignore it anyway and hope it would go away.

  But it didn’t go away. It just kept building and building like a summer storm. He tried to keep his mind on the fiddle music, the painted boards of the porch under his boots, the look on Ramon’s face as he sat beside his wife. That didn’t help much. Kinda made him feel hungry and lonely at the same time.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think. He didn’t have time for a woman—any woman, and especially not a proper lady. He only had time to brand cattle and mend fences and dig wells and keep his ranch together.

  All he had to do was pay Clarissa the three dollars she earned each week as his cook and pretty soon she would climb on the eastbound train and be gone. Then he could stop tossing and turning half the night thinking about her sleeping just one floor above him.

  The top of Clarissa’s head brushed against his chin. Hot damn, her hair was soft! It took a lot to get his mind off his struggling ranch, but the fleeting touch of any part of her could sure do it in a hurry. Hell and damn, anyway. I don’t need this. He needed to focus on his ranch and forget that Clarissa Seaforth smelled good and felt so good in his arms it made him crazy.

  * * *

  The next night after supper, while Gray lounged in the parlor with Emily, he was surprised to hear Caleb Arness’s voice.

  “Harris?” the man bawled. Sounded as though he was just outside on the porch. Quickly he set Emily on her feet.

  “Go into the kitchen, Squirt. Tell your mama to take you to the pantry and stay there.”

  When the girl scampered off, he puffed out the lantern and retrieved his revolver from over the door. “You’re trespassing, Arness. Whaddya want?”

  “My fiancée, Clarissa Seaforth. Come to take her back to town.”

  “You’re wasting your time, Arness. She’s not your fiancée. She works for me.”

  “Huh! Doin’ what?”

  “She’s my cook.”

  “An’ what else?” Arness boomed. “You got no claim on her. I do.”

  “No, you don’t. Now get off my land.”

  “Oh, yeah? What if I don’t?”

  Gray put a bullet through the screen door that kicked up the dust at Arness’s feet. “Don’t tempt me, Arness.”

  The stocky man jumped back, then shook his fist at Gray. “You ain’t heard the last of this, Harris. That girl belongs to me!”

  Arness shuffled off, and a few moments later Gray heard the sound of receding hoofbeats. He shut the front door, locked it and moved into the kitchen. Halfway across the floor to the pantry he stumbled into Clarissa, with a heavy iron skillet gripped in one hand.

  “Where’s Emily?” he barked.

  “In—in the pantry.”

  “How come you aren’t?”

  “Well, I—I thought...”

  He lifted the skillet out of her hand. “You thought I might need some help, is that it?”

  “I th-thought you might want—”

  He was trying hard to be angry at her, but the truth was he was touched. Darn fool woman. “Get Emily and go upstairs,” he said more brusquely than he intended.

  She snapped to attention. “Yes, sir, Mister Harris, sir. I was only trying to—”

  “Get yourself kidnapped or killed,” he grumbled. She said nothing, but he could hear her ragged breathing in the dark.

  “Sorry, Clarissa. Go on to bed now. You know you’re safe here.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I know. Thank you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Gray reined Rowdy around to face the tall, skinny ranch hand they all called Shorty. “Shorty, grab that roll of barbwire, will ya?”

  “Sure, boss. Done rounded up all those cows that got out yesterday. Any idea what happened?”

  “Same as last month. Arness and his crew of rustlers is what happened.”

  “They cut the fence and try to take cows,” Ramon said. “But we see them.”

  “We run ’em off,” Gray’s newest hand, Nebraska, chimed in. “And then we took out after the cattle.”

  “Thanks, fellas,” Gray said. The new kid might be wet behind the ears, but he could sure ride. “Glad you work for me and not Arness.”

  “I’m glad, too, boss. Don’t like cheaters or people who steal. Back in Nebraska we string ’em up.”

  Shorty scratched his head. “Boss, how come Arness keeps doin’ us dirt? What’s he got against you?”

  Gray spit off to one side. “He wants my ranch to fail. Wants me to go under.”

  “Some reason?” the tall man queried.

  “Guess maybe because I beat him out of buyin’ the place for himself when it came up for auction some years ago. Arness wanted it, but I’d saved up more money.”

  “And now,” Ramon interjected, “he wants the señorita who lives here.”

  Nebraska pricked up his big ears. “Might be that women are more important than cows, huh?”

  “Way more important,” Shorty answered.

  “Knock it off!” Gray snapped. “Got fences to mend.”

  All four riders spurred their mounts and moved off into the meadow. Shaking his head, Nebraska followed with the wagonload of barbwire. Gray rode on ahead. Losing the number of cows he had this past year was making him plenty nervous. On the drive to Abilene, rustlers had made off with close to seventy head; he couldn’t afford to lose any more.

  * * *

  That evening the hands were lounging around the bunkhouse after the chores were done when Maria accosted Gray on the front porch.

  “Señor Gray, Sunday is May first. We go to picnic, no?”

  “No.” Ranch work was more important than picnics.

  Maria peered at him. “The girl, Emily, she would like it.”

  “Yeah, she probably would, Maria, but we’ve got calves to brand and—”

  Maria propped her hands on her hips.

  “Señor, is no work on Sunday. Is May Day.”

  “Yeah, I know. So what? A ranch doesn’t care what day it is.”

  “Señor, you think too much about ranch work. Think of Emily! She knows nothing of ranch work. She is a small child only. She deserves to have fun, is true?”

  Gray sighed. In the five years he’d owned the Bar H, he’d never won a single argument with Maria. You’d think he’d have learned that by now. He threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. Make that chocolate cake you’re so famous for, huh?”

  “Oh, si, Señor Gray. Gracias.”

  * * *

  “A picnic!” Emily squealed. “A real picnic with potato salad and everything?”

  Gray set his coffee mug down on the supper table. “Yeah, ‘and everything.’ Would you like that?”

  “And ice cream?”

  Gray had to laugh. “Maybe.”

  Clarissa sent him a pensive look. “I don’t have a recipe for potato salad.”

  “Nobody has a recipe for potato salad,” he said. “You just boil up some eggs and some potatoes and mix ’em up together with some onion and a chopped pickle or two. And some salt,” he added. He was relieved when she laughed.

  Emily patted his arm. “Are you gonna tell me a story tonight?”

  “Maybe. Have you been a good girl today?”

  “Not ’xactly, but I w
ant a story, anyway.”

  “How ’bout if your mama tells you a story tonight?”

  “No!” the girl sang. “Mama’s stories aren’t exciting, like yours.”

  That caught his interest. “Not exciting?” He caught Clarissa’s gaze. “Living in a big city like Boston isn’t exciting?”

  “Not exciting the way things are out here in Smoke River,” Clarissa said. “Life in Boston is more...well, civilized. You know, with libraries and concerts and museums.”

  “Man, I never thought of libraries and museums as bein’ exciting!”

  Clarissa’s voice rose. “But they are!”

  “Can’t wait to get back there, huh?”

  Clarissa opened her mouth to reply, but Emily cut her off. “I can wait! I like it out here lots better.”

  Gray stuffed down a chuckle. “Clarissa, looks like you’ve been outvoted.”

  “About the picnic, yes. About going home to Boston—never. All I need is enough money for a train ticket.”

  Gray said nothing. It wasn’t surprising that she wanted to go back to Boston; what was surprising was his reaction. He didn’t want to think about the stab of disappointment that knifed through his chest.

  Emily tugged on his sleeve. “Please, Mister Gray, tell me a story about you.”

  “Listen, Squirt, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you a story if your mama tells one, too.” He glanced up at Clarissa. “Well, how about it?”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t do any such thing,” she began.

  “Why not? Doesn’t have to be about libraries or museums, does it?”

  “Tell about when you an’ Papa were little,” Emily begged.

  Gray stood up. “And to sweeten the pot,” he said, gathering up the supper platter, “I’ll wash up the dishes.”

  Clarissa bit her lip. “Very well.” She settled Emily on her lap and took a sip from her coffee mug. “When your papa and I were very young, about your age, we got in trouble one afternoon. Your grandfather took us to the park to play. We took off our shoes and socks and ran over the green grass and let it tickle our toes, and then we found a little hill. Anthony, that’s your papa, decided we should lie down and roll all the way to the bottom.”

  “Ooh, was it fun?”

  Clarissa laughed. “It was fun until Anthony rolled over a big rock. It hurt his back, but he laughed, anyway. However, your grandfather didn’t think it was the least bit funny, so he tipped me over his knee and paddled me good.”

  “Did you cry?”

  “I tried not to, but I did, a little.”

  “Did he buy you ice cream when you cried?”

  Clarissa gave a quiet sigh. “Honey, neither Anthony nor I ever tasted ice cream until your grandfather was gone.”

  “How come?”

  She hesitated. “Our fath—your grandfather didn’t like ice cream. He said it was frivolous and his money would be better spent elsewhere.”

  “What’s frivlus mean, Mama?”

  “It means something that is silly. Not important.”

  “What did grandfather like?”

  “He liked money.” Her voice had gone flat.

  At the sink, Gray froze. Money? Didn’t he like his son and his daughter? He plunged a plate into the soapy dishpan. Something wasn’t right there. It sounded kinda like the way he had been raised, except that his folks were dirt-poor, and they ignored him because they were too busy drinking and fighting. Clarissa’s pa just didn’t care.

  Emily’s little arms stole around Clarissa’s neck. “What about your mama?”

  “My mother...” Her arms tightened around her daughter. “My mother did not survive my birth.”

  “Like my mama?”

  “Yes, honey, like your mama.” Her voice caught.

  Gray grabbed the dishtowel and dried his hands. “Okay, Emily girl,” he said quickly, “now it’s my turn for a story. You ready?”

  “Yes!” She scrambled off Clarissa, who quickly averted her face. “Can I sit on your lap?”

  He got comfortable on the settee and lifted Emily onto his lap. “Okay, Squirt, here we go. Once upon a time—”

  “I wanna story about you,” Emily demanded. “About when you ran away.”

  “I already told you about runnin’ away, and about the silver mine, didn’t I?”

  “Tell me again!”

  “No!” came a voice from the kitchen along with a splash of water from the sink.

  “Tell about something new.”

  Gray sat up with a jerk. Oh-ho, Clarissa was listening, was she? Kinda made him swell up inside to think she was interested. “Well, um, when I left the silver mine, guess what I did?”

  “You married a pretty lady,” Emily announced.

  Gray swallowed. “Nope.” Fat chance. He’d never wanted to tie himself to a woman, no matter how pretty. Brides turned into wives who nagged and drank and fought with their husbands, like his ma and pa. “Guess again.”

  “You joined a circus and rode a big elephant?”

  “Nuh-uh. Sounds like fun, though.”

  “You bought a horse,” the voice called from the kitchen.

  Gray chuckled. Now, how did she guess that? “Yeah, I bought a horse, a big roan mare with a white blaze on her nose. And a saddle. I hired on with a rancher in Montana and drove a herd of cattle to Kansas.”

  “Didja get rich?”

  “Nah. I saved up all my pay. Stuffed it all in a clean sock and bided my time.”

  “Until when?” Clarissa called.

  Gray let a slow smile tug at his lips. Guess he was more entertaining than he thought. “Until I had enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Emily demanded.

  “Enough to buy this ranch.”

  Emily squirmed. “Did it cost a lot?”

  “Every penny I had,” Gray said with a sigh.

  “How come you wanted to buy it?”

  “Because—” He stopped. He’d never said this out loud to anyone and it kinda scared him “—because I’d never owned anything in my whole life, and I just plain wanted it.”

  “But why, really?” Clarissa asked. By now she stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping a plate.

  Gray shot a glance at her, but she wouldn’t look at him. “Well, I figure it was because I...uh, I wanted to feel safe.”

  She looked at him now, and with real interest. “Safe from what?”

  He drew in a slow lungful of supper-scented air. Hell, he’d never really thought about it that deep. “Safe from hurtin’, I guess. Having a home, a place that’s mine. If you own something it can’t ever turn on you.”

  He thought she might laugh, but she didn’t. She looked straight into his eyes and didn’t even smile. Oh, God, her eyes were green! He’d tried not to notice that so much these past few days, but tonight was different. Maybe it was because he’d bared his soul to her about the ranch and what it meant to him. Made him damn nervous.

  Clarissa knew in the pit of her stomach why Gray’s ranch was so important to him. It was the same hunger she felt for finding a home for Emily and herself. Every single night with her daughter cuddled next to her in the attic bedroom, she had to acknowledge how misguided her acceptance of Caleb Arness’s proposal had been. After Anthony’s death and the eventual loss of the home they had grown up in, her longing for a place where she belonged was like a toothache that shot pain through her entire body.

  But she would not find it out here in the West. And definitely not here in Smoke River on a ranch she didn’t like or understand. She could hardly wait to return to Boston, where she had friends, where she knew how to fit in. She could even find employment. Out here in this hot, dry country she felt like a delicate petunia in the desert. Never before had she so clearly understood the phrase fish out of water,
but that is exactly what she was.

  The only bright spot in her dismal situation was how much Emily had reveled in life out here for the past few weeks. The girl adored Maria and Ramon, who made toys and dolls for her and spent hours teaching her Spanish words. She even adored Gray, who owned this little corner of hell. The ranch hands—tall, gangly Shorty and the young boy they called Nebraska—treated Emily with gentle forbearance, even though she was underfoot most of the time. Emily loved the horses, the garden Maria had helped her plant, even the horse trough, where she watched in fascination when the ranch animals drank and happily sailed willow-bark boats on the surface.

  Gray set Emily on her feet, stood up and moved toward Clarissa. “The picnic is tomorrow in the center of town. You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “N-no.”

  “Like hell you’re not. Emily’s all excited. You can’t disappoint her.”

  She went white as buttermilk. “Oh, but—I might run into Caleb Arness.”

  “No, you won’t. Shorty says Arness is in jail for bein’ drunk and disorderly at the Golden Partridge.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Clarissa. Arness is out of the way. I checked on it. There’ll just be a lot of town folks and ranchers and their families. And lots of children... Emily will like it.”

  “I—I know.”

  “You’re still afraid of Arness? He won’t bother you.”

  “How do you know?”

  Gray surveyed her pale face for a full minute. “Because he’s in jail, like I said.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Heck, yes, I’m sure. The man’s always drunk too much. He spends most of his time in jail.”

  Chapter Ten

  In the end, in spite of her trepidation, Clarissa packed up the potato salad she’d made, dressed in her clean white shirtwaist and her blue-striped calico skirt, and borrowed one of Maria’s sun hats. All the way into town, riding beside Gray on the wagon bench, she found herself admiring the drifts of spring wildflowers covering the meadows—yellow desert parsley and red Indian paintbrush and fluffy white Queen Anne’s lace. Swaths of pink-headed wild buckwheat rippled in the wind and big yellow daisy bushes dotted the fields of new green grass.