The Tenderfoot Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  "About what?"

  "About when the baby comes."

  "We have weeks yet."

  "We have to be prepared."

  All right. Say what you want."

  I sent for Corinne, but I don't know if she'll be herein time."

  "There's Aggie—"

  "Aggie is an old woman. She won't be much help."

  "I'll manage," she said. "I don't know what you're worrying about."

  "I'm worrying because the doctor is a half day's ride away."

  "I think babies take longer than that," she assured him. "There will be time."

  Considering her aversion to the last time he'd summoned the doctor, he took it as a good sign that she didn't argue with him, and instead assured him. The fact that she wasn't worried amazed him. "All right then."

  She took a lantern from the table. "Good night."

  "Night."

  Her skirts rustled as she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

  Each night Linnea joined the men at their fire, and after about an hour, she and Cimarron left the group to enter the kitchen and read. No one seemed to think much of it, but once, Ben asked what book they were reading.

  Occasionally Will passed through for a cup of coffee on his way to his room, and when he did, he greeted them as he normally would, with a nod. But as a rule they were left alone for her studies.

  The following week Will rode out one morning after breakfast and when he returned after the noon meal, he placed a large brown-paper-wrapped bundle on the end of the table where she and Aggie usually sat. Linnea eyed the package curiously, but set out a cup and a fork and brought him the plate of chicken and potato salad she had saved.

  Aggie was sitting on the porch in the shade, so they were alone. Linnea poured him a cup of coffee

  He pointed at the package. "That's for you."

  For her? She set the coffeepot back on the stove. What is it?"

  "Look and see."

  Pressing one hand to her breast, she stepped to where the mysterious bundle sat. Hesitantly, she untied the string and peeled back the paper.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Peeling back the stiff paper revealed a folded stack of fabric, topped with thread and needles. One of the lengths of cloth was a deep vivid green with tiny sprigs of white-and-yellow flowers, the other a soft cornflower blue. In between were layers of plain white cotton, along with eyelet trim. And lastly, she discovered a length of soft white flannel.

  "Can you sew?" he asked. "I know you can mend, but can you make clothing?''

  She glanced up. "I can do a fair job."

  "Mrs. Carmichael helped me pick 'em out and buy the right amounts," he said. "Should be enough for two dresses and some under—other things. There's a pattern in there somewhere, too."

  Linnea's cheeks had grown uncomfortably warm. "I don't understand."

  He concentrated on eating his chicken a few moments before replying. "The Independence Day celebration is comin' up, and you'll need something that fits properly."

  He carefully hadn't said something prettier than her plain brown skirts and overshirts, but the implication was clear in her mind.

  "I didn't know about the celebration, but I don't think I'll be going."

  "We'll all go," he said. "It's a chance to meet neighbors and bargain crops and stock. Last year I arranged to get a hog in the fall in trade for cutting ice last winter."

  She understood how important it was for him to be part of the community and to baiter services, but was it necessary for her to go?

  "The men enjoyed the food and the dancing," he added.

  Dancing? Her child chose that moment to move, creating an uncomfortable pressure on her innards and a rolling kick across her belly. "Mr. Tucker—"

  He sipped his coffee. "Will."

  "Will," she managed uncomfortably. "Do you think it would be proper for me to attend? In my condition? And without a husband?"

  "You're a widow, Linnea." He set the cup down. "It's not a shame to have lost a husband."

  It felt shameful. But she'd been ashamed with the husband she'd been forced to marry when he was alive, too.

  "People out here don't live by the same standards as the prigs in the East," he said. "They aim for practical and sensible."

  "I don't know anyone."

  "You'll meet other women from nearby ranches and I guarantee you'll see a few in your same condition."

  "I don't know…"

  "You need to meet other women." It was an order

  She stared at him. Back to his worry about the baby, she guessed. "If you insist."

  "I do."

  "And I suppose you insist that I make myself a dress, too?"

  "Yes."

  If she didn't look upon the dressmaking material as a gift, she could accept it. He didn't want his fellow ranchers and their wives to think he didn't pay his help enough to buy decent clothing. At that moment, she felt terribly plain and dowdy in her brown dress, and only now because he had noticed.

  "The flannel is for the baby. Mrs. Carmichael said you'll need flannel for changes as well as for gowns and such. I think there's enough."

  For the baby. Linnea stared at the fabrics until her vision blurred. He'd thought to inquire and purchase something she would need—something she hadn't even considered in her ignorance and her frantic worry over her day-to-day existence. Her throat constricted on the rising swell of emotion.

  "If it's not enough, you can pick up more when you're in town again."

  She nodded, wordlessly, afraid to speak for fear she'd burst into foolish tears. She swallowed back a confusing jumble of appreciation, embarrassment and caution, pursed her lips, and raised her head. She dared look toward him then. "Thank you."

  If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn that relief crossed his stoic features, that his shoulders eased somewhat and that he released a breath. Probably glad to be finished arguing with her and get on with his day's work.

  His plate was empty, except for chicken bones, and he picked up it and his cup and set them beside the basin.

  "Appreciate you savin' me a meal." He grabbed his hat and headed out the back door.

  Aggie said something to him that Linnea couldn't hear and her cackle followed.

  Linnea stepped out onto the back porch and let the breeze cool her flushed face. She watched Will cross the yard toward the corrals. One of the cow dogs ran to greet him and Will stopped to stroke the mutt's head before moving on, the canine at his heels.

  She rubbed a spot on her abdomen where vigorous kicking continued. So far her baby was safe and protected inside her. But soon, as her employer kept reminding her, the little one was going to be ready to come out into the world. "Do you know anything about birthing a baby, Aggie?" she asked.

  "Nary a thing."

  Linnea nodded that she'd assumed as much. Maybe Will was right. Maybe she did need to meet some womenfolk so she'd have advice handy. She would not call for that doctor if it was the last thing she ever did. If she never had to let a man poke or pry her body again she'd be happy. Just the thought of it shamed her to no end.

  After several minutes she went in to prepare sausage and stuffing for supper.

  Linnea explained her need for time to sew to Cimarron, and for the next two weeks, she sewed in the evenings. Every moment she could spare, she cut and basted and stitched until her fingertips were sore, but she had two sets of the prettiest undergarments she'd ever owned and a green calico wrapper with a raffled yoke and hem. Even though the dress was loose-fitting and unadorned, it was the nicest dress she could remember owning. After the baby came, she would take out the seams and alter the garment into a close-fitting bodice and skirt.

  When the first of July arrived, she had finished the ensemble she would wear on the Fourth and started on the baby garments and flannel nappies.

  "How about you?" she said to Will one evening as he sat going over his ledgers and she finished a hem on a tiny gown. "Do you have proper clothing to wear for this
occasion?''

  "I do," he replied simply.

  "Does anything need to be ironed?"

  "I'll bring down a shirt if that makes you happy."

  After he'd finished working and put away his book and ink pen, he climbed the stairs and returned with a white shirt, which he draped over the back of her chair. "I'm turnin' in. You need your sleep, too."

  She stood awkwardly and placed her sewing on the seat of the rocker. "Good night."

  Once he'd ascended the stairs, she picked up his shirt. It was made of fine linen, tailored to fit, and embroidered with white stitching on the collar and cuffs.

  Since the evening was cool, she would perform the task tonight, rather than in the heat of the day, so she stoked the fire, adding cattail as tinder, and placed two irons on the stovetop.

  As she pressed fabric he wore next to his skin, her thoughts drifted into imagination. Laundering and pressing a man's shirts was something a wife did. Along with cooking and cleaning and seeing to his everyday needs. She performed all the duties of a wife for Will Tucker.

  Well, all but one.

  The unwanted thought shocked her out of her reverie. She didn't mind the cooking or cleaning, ironing or weeding the garden, but she'd rather wrestle a bear than be a wife in that respect again.

  Life with her husband had been miserable, and the memories brought it all back to keep her aversion fresh. Overhead a board creaked, making her acutely aware of the man upstairs. She pictured him undressing and climbing into his bed. She remembered how tender he'd been the evening he had doctored her burn and kissed her.

  The iron grew cool as the image of kissing Will warmed her soul and confused her mind. Kissing him hadn't been unpleasant at all, and that had shocked her. It had been…nice. An eye-opening revelation, no less. She hadn't known an intimate encounter with a man could be so pleasant. And unthreatening. And incomplete.

  Now, why had she thought that?

  Linnea set the iron aside and ran her hand over the crisp white fabric and imagined his chest filling it out, his shoulders wide and strong, his back a column of flexing muscle.

  She pulled her hand away as though she'd been burned and quickly folded the garment.

  When had she become a raving lunatic, thinking of her employer in that manner? Such scorching imaginations had never been a part of her thinking before, and she'd be wise to snuff them out before they went any further.

  Turning out the lamps, she hurried to her room and lowered the bar across the door. She stared at the lock. Aside from his scowls and his barked commands, Will had given her no true reason to fear him. In fact, when it came right down to it, the man was considerate of her needs, protective and respectful.

  Never had she thought of Will's presence upstairs in such a inciting manner, and the preoccupation was enough to keep her awake. That night and the next…

  The morning of the holiday, Roy helped Linnea fry chickens and grate cabbage and pack them into crates for the trip. Linnea had baked and iced spice cakes and sliced a mountain of cucumbers and tomatoes. When the food was loaded into a wagon, Roy took the seat and urged the team of horses forward.

  Linnea rushed back inside to help Aggie dress. Cimarron carried water to the stove to heat, then to the tub in the side room, and quickly disappeared so she could bathe.

  The task of bathing was becoming more and more difficult, and she felt like the stuck cows she heard the men talk about, the ones that wandered into mud on the riverbank and couldn't get themselves out. The pretty new chemise and drawers and the green dress made her feel better about herself, even though donning her stockings winded her.

  There was nothing she could do about her boots, which were worn and scuffed, but she had polished them and her skirt hem was long enough to hide their unsightly appearance.

  Will, having mentioned he would bathe in the stream, had donned his clothing and found her drying her hair in front of the stove.

  She turned at the sound of his boots on the wooden floor, and the sight of him took her breath away.

  He wore the white shirt she had ironed—and fondled… her cheeks warmed…with a string tie and black trousers with stiff creases. A matching suit jacket emphasized his height and the breadth of his shoulders. His dark hair had been brushed back from his face, though it still fell to his shoulders in waves, In his strong dark hand he held the black Stetson.

  He was looking at her strangely, and she realized he'd never seen her with her hair down and loose as it was now. It was improper for a woman to have her hair unbound in front of a man who wasn't her husband, but she'd been trying to dry it quickly, so she could arrange it and be ready to leave.

  The fingers of his other hand, the one not holding the hat, flexed open and shut a few times. Knots ran along his jaw. His gray eyes held a thunderstorm of unreadable emotion. Was he angry?

  "I'll be ready in just a moment," she told him. "I wanted my hair dry and it's taken a while."

  "No rush," he replied, his deep voice sounding as though it rumbled up from his toes. But he continued to watch her as she leaned sideways and ran the comb through her hair.

  It was impolite of him to stare as she performed this personal task, but his attention didn't seem rude More like fascination, if she wasn't dreaming.

  At last, deciding the strands were dry enough, she hurried to her room, plaited a thick braid to wind around her head and pin in place. She didn't want to muss what she'd just accomplished by wearing the daisy hat, but neither did she want the sun scorching her skin all day, so she grabbed it and met him where he still waited.

  He was looking at her as though he'd never seen her before, and the study made her uncomfortable. She sensed he wanted to say something.

  "Is anything wrong?" She checked the yoke of her dress, smoothed the fabric over her belly selfconsciously and raised a hand to the wisps of hair she'd tugged in front of her ears.

  He caught her hand and pulled it away. "Don't. It's perfect."

  "Why are you staring at me?"

  "You look so pretty," he said.

  A gentle mountain breeze could have blown her over with the astonishment she experienced at those words. The way her skin flushed all the way from her midsection, up her chest and into her cheeks, anyone would have thought the man had written a love sonnet and whispered it in her ear. "Oh—well, you look quite handsome yourself."

  That brought him around, with what she thought was a dusky red stain on his tanned cheeks. He quickly led her out the door, stuffing his hat on his head and escorting her to a wagon where Aggie waited, ensconced on quilts in the bed, a perky yellow bonnet shading her wrinkled face. Her rocker lay on its side at the rear.

  "Don't you look like a spring flower!" Aggie said as Will helped Linnea onto the seat above.

  "A rather large spring flower," Linnea replied, adjusting her hat.

  Will laughed.

  Aggie chuckled.

  And Linnea realized she'd make a joke at her own expense. She laughed, too, and smiling, Will joined her on the seat and picked up the reins and clucked to the horses.

  She'd never seen that smile before. It bared his even white teeth and creased his lean cheek and made butterflies swoop and dip in her stomach. She would have jumped off the wagon and run all the way to Rock Creek to see that smile again. And at that ludicrous picture, she laughed again.

  And he turned to her and smiled.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The festivities were held in a flat pasture that had been freshly mowed and raked. The fresh green summer smells and the warm sun assaulted Linnea's senses. Will pulled the team and wagon up beside a dozen others, and Linnea's heart fluttered nervously at the bustle of congregating townspeople and ranchers. Many were unloading wagons, others were setting up kegs and tables.

  A wooden platform for musicians and dancers had been constructed and posts for lanterns placed at each corner. A group of men were hanging red-white-and-blue banners between the posts. From a pole with fresh-turned dirt at the base, an A
merican flag rippled in the breeze.

  A few open-sided tents were being raised for those who wanted protection from the sun.

  Will assisted Linnea to the ground, then went back for Aggie and her chair. Carrying the rocker, he led the way, and Linnea followed slowly with Aggie on her arm.

  Oh, my goodness, there was food. Makeshift tables were already laden with bowls of custard, pickled peaches and molasses-sweetened beans, jars of served cucumbers and oysters, platters of chicken.. ham and turkey, baskets of rolls, apples and sliced breads, rows of johnnycakes and waffle cakes. Linnea spotted her own offerings among them, so she knew the men had handed the food into the capable hands of the dozen ladies who bustled and sliced and tasted.

  And there were people. Young and old, some dressed in silk taffeta, others in faded broadcloth, and Linnea realized she fit comfortably somewhere in between. Children shouted and laughed, playing games of tag and hide-and-seek.

  Keeping track of Will as he moved through the throng and found a spot in the shade for Aggie's chair, Linnea observed a cluster of men gathered beside the kegs of beer, another in the shade of a nearby willow grove.

  "You'll be comfortable here," Will said to Aggie, He'd placed her chair beneath the cover of one of the tents, where she'd be out of the burning sun, but able to see the activity. Then he turned to Linnea. "There were a few folding stools packed on the other wagon. I'll see that you have one to use when you get tired."

  Was he leaving her here now? "All right."

  "Have a good time," he said, confirming her mental question. "Mingle."

  She nodded. Mingle.

  The bustle of activity held her interest after he left to join a group of men. She observed the women putting the finishing touches to the tables of food. And then, at Aggie's insistence, Linnea walked into their midst to offer help.

  A tall brown-haired woman in a calico dress and yellow apron gave Linnea a warm smile that created charming dimples. "I'm Mavis Pruitt," she said, glancing at Linnea's protruding stomach. "Me and my husband, Piper, have a spread on the other side of Sweetbriar Canyon. What's your name, dear?"