“A good thing, right?” Jacob chuckled.
“Yes, sir.”
Jacob used the boot scraper on the porch before following the boy inside where the smell of warm cinnamon apples filled the room. “Smells good, Mrs. Gephart.”
A shy smile perched on her lips as she pulled a golden cake out of the oven, yet her gaze didn’t quite make it up to his. “Applesauce cake. Celia’s favorite.” She set the hot pan on a trivet. “And you can, uh, should probably ... call me Annie.”
Her face reddened, and she glanced at him before busying herself with a pot. When she lifted the lid, the aroma of peppercorns escaped. “I’m sorry supper’s not ready yet.”
“Not a problem.” How would it feel to call her Annie? He preferred the sound of Anne, but he couldn’t call her that yet, or maybe never. He swallowed against the pulsing in his throat and grabbed the pile of silverware on the counter. Following Celia around the table, he placed the utensils next to where she set plates. Celia eyed him a couple of times, but kept her thoughts to herself.
How quickly did Annie need him to make a decision? “Your taxes are due in two weeks, right?”
“Yes.” Her voice came out raspy.
If he agreed to the marriage, he didn’t have to marry her before he paid the taxes, but what would they gain by drawing out an engagement—if you could call it that—when a ranch needed to be run?
Celia shot him a questioning glance.
Maybe they ought to enlighten the kids about what they were contemplating. “Do you mind if I tell the children what we’re considering?”
Annie slowly wiped her hands on her apron, her face a mixture of hope and fear. Celia and Spencer both stopped their progress around the table to stare at him.
Receiving no answer from Annie except a shrug, Jacob sent up a prayer for his words to be blessed. “Your mother and I talked on Monday about your family’s financial needs. About how to keep from losing your ranch. Your mother’s afraid she’ll have to sell if there isn’t someone to help her.”
Annie gave him a blank stare, and Celia set glasses next to the plates, trying without success to act uninterested.
“Are you going to help us?” Spencer stepped in front of him, a handful of napkins hugged against his scrawny chest.
“Possibly.” He turned to Annie, her face still frozen. “Your mother’s asked me if I’d be willing to become your stepfather.”
Celia fumbled the glass she was setting on the table, but grabbed it before it rolled off.
“That’d be swell!” Spencer dropped his napkins and squeezed Jacob’s waist.
His heart melted onto the floor with the table linens. “Hold on, buddy.” He rubbed Spencer’s back. “I’d like to see how things work around here and talk with your mother more before we decide.”
Celia stirred the turnips around in her bowl, less from the fact she didn’t like turnips, and more because her mother and the marshal discussed marriage like a business deal.
Daddy should’ve known fighting with the sheepherders would’ve landed them in this mess.
She glanced up from her stew. The marshal was using his fingers to keep track of the assets Ma was listing. They didn’t act any different than they did at church when they all shook his hand on their way out, except maybe Ma was stiffer than normal.
This was a mistake. Though if Ma sold Daddy’s land, that’d be even more so.
The marshal turned to her. “So, Celia, what’re your jobs around here?” He leaned in his chair, a long leg casually flipped to the side, poking out from under the tablecloth like he already owned the place.
She leaned back in her own chair and gave him the side-eye.
She did what she wanted, but considering the lawman didn’t let her get away with nothing on Sundays, he’d likely have a conniption over that. “I help with the cattle.”
“What else? You do more in the summer, I assume.”
Ma lifted her eyebrows and turned toward Celia.
If she mentioned any more chores, would Ma hold her responsible for them? Even if she didn’t marry the marshal? “Considering there’s no one else to work the cattle right now, I’d say that’s plenty.”
“May I have another slice of cake?” Spencer held up his crumbless plate.
Ma shook her head. “No, son. Time for bed.”
Good, if Ma was going to deny her a slice of her favorite cake just because she wasn’t about to finish her mushy turnips, he shouldn’t get seconds. She stood, and her chair’s legs scraped across the floor. “I’m going to bed, too. I’ll help, Spencer.”
Ma’s brows rose again. “Thank you, darling.”
Leading Spencer by the shoulders, Celia pushed him across the parlor. “Get in your pajamas.” She then stalked into her room, the attached lean-to her parents had converted for her, and shut the door. She didn’t want to hear the adults deciding her future without so much as a care for her. Sure, the marshal had put on a good show asking what she thought, but how could she answer truthfully?
How could you think I’d be happy about this?
But with Daddy dead, I have no choice.
She fumbled with her buttons and searched her mind for an alternative Ma had to be overlooking. They were certainly having difficulty caring for the place with no cowboys. The well-being of the cattle had been placed all on her shoulders since Tom had left. She didn’t mind not having to go to school so she could take care of their small herd, but she did miss her friends—when they bothered to attend school themselves.
And though Daddy had treated her as if she were a ranch hand—stealing her away to help with the men’s work more than any girl she knew—she couldn’t run things on her own for long. She definitely didn’t know what to do on a cattle drive or how to deal with stockyards. Daddy had told her this was the year she could ride along...
She slumped and dropped onto the bed to pull off her shoes.
The chilly spring air seeped more easily through the chink in her lean-to bedroom than the rest of the house, so she hurriedly changed from dress to nightgown and grabbed her quilted robe. She and Spencer still needed to brush their teeth and say goodnight, not that she wanted to go back into the living area in her nightdress considering the marshal was still there. But if he chose to marry Ma for their ranch, she’d have to deal with it or be stuck in her room every night.
Peeking out her door, Celia saw the marshal leaning forward in intense conversation. His thick hair curled over his forehead, and his hand rubbed his face, which was more attractive than usual with the slight shadow of whiskers on his jaw. Many of her friends practically swooned while whispering about the marshal, hoping he’d stay single until they were old enough to catch his eye. Silly girls. The man was older than Ma though he didn’t look it.
The shawl Ma wore tonight hung on her shoulders, and the few wisps of limp rusty hair that had escaped her bun only highlighted the thinness of her bones. The worn black mourning dress she wore made her skin look pasty.
Why was the handsomest man in Armelle interested in Ma? Would she love him more than Daddy, who’d also been plain and had given Celia his frizzy hair and freckles?
No matter how attractive the marshal might be, she’d never forgive him if he came in and changed up all of Daddy’s plans for the land.
Quickly padding to her brother’s door, she let herself in. Spencer was struggling with his shirt, the yoke stuck around his big ol’ head because he hadn’t unbuttoned it. But instead of helping, she walked past him toward the window to stare at the calves bawling across the fence.
What if Ma sold the place?
Could people cry after they died? Daddy surely would if his land ended up in the hands of some stranger who didn’t love the smell of wet sage and sand after the rain, or riding through the larkspur when the long blue spikes were tall enough to tickle a rider’s legs, or rounding up the cattle as numerous as the sagebrush.
Cattle.
She ground her teeth. If Daddy had really loved anything, it
was cattle, always singing to them until their big vacuous eyes rolled and they mooed in inconsistent harmony.
Though the sheep might’ve killed off the grass, they wouldn’t have destroyed their family’s life.
Spencer tapped her shoulder. “I’m ready.”
Celia directed him into the kitchen.
He climbed onto the stool in front of the washbasin’s mirror to watch himself brush his teeth while Ma and the marshal continued discussing the ranch in soft tones. After Spencer spit more than ten times, Celia tweaked his ear, but not hard enough for him to yelp. “Get done, Spence. It’s my turn.”
“All right, sis.” He spit again and wiped his face.
Pushing him around when he was nothing but bubbles and sunshine never made her feel good, but there was no reason for his constant cheerfulness. He’d invite a monster to sleep in his bed if he thought it would please someone.
And with a face-splitting grin, he’d welcome any man into the house who promised him attention.
She pushed him out of the way. “Go tell Ma good night.”
Brushing her teeth, she watched the marshal in the mirror. When Spencer tapped on his knee, the marshal stopped talking and turned to her brother. “Are you headed to bed?”
“Yes. Will you read to us?”
The marshal ruffled Spencer’s hair and faced Ma, his right eyebrow raised.
“You don’t have to, but maybe talking to them without me around would be a good idea.”
“Why don’t you get a book, Spencer?” The marshal met Celia’s eyes in the mirror. “Do you join him for stories?”
“We read the Bible.” She garbled her words around the baking soda grit in her mouth.
His smile gleamed. “Even better.”
Yes, her friends would be jealous. How she would hate to listen to their questions and surmises if Ma really did hook him.
She’d keep this whole mess to herself until the in-town girls found out on their own—if anything came of it. She’d have to tell Spencer to keep his yap shut.
She followed Spencer into his room, took a seat in the rocking chair, and handed the marshal the Bible. “We were going to read Jonah next. Ma reads the whole book if it’s short.”
He settled back against Spencer’s headboard as if he read to them every night. Tracking the words with his index finger, the marshal used lots of silly character voices as he read, which Spencer ate up. Celia rolled her eyes despite no one paying attention to her.
“So.” He shut the book, put his arm around Spencer, and looked toward her. “I know the thought of my joining this family probably shocked you, and you may be afraid of what that might mean, but I want you to know, no decision’s been made yet. If you have any feelings or thoughts you’d like me to know, you can share them now. But whatever happens, know that I’ve enjoyed every minute I’ve spent with you two—”
Celia snorted, but instead of giving her a glare, the marshal’s eyes twinkled.
“—and no matter what, I hope you know I love you. As I do all my students.”
“I’d love it if you were my pa.” Spencer snuggled against him.
“And being your pa would be a wonderful thing, but...” He pulled Spencer in front of him. “If that were the only thing I had to think about, I wouldn’t hesitate a moment. But there are many things adults have to consider. So if I don’t choose to marry your ma, I want you to know it isn’t because I didn’t want to be your father, because that sounds like the best job in the world. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Marshal Hendrix.”
Celia eyed the lawman. He sounded good, but the cattle would take most of his time just like they took Daddy’s. Ranchers didn’t have time to play with their kids. Daddy had explained that often enough. She didn’t dare hope the marshal would give Spencer the attention he was promising. There wasn’t time for such foolishness on a Wyoming ranch.
And if the marshal thought he’d send her inside to work with Ma, he’d have another think coming. Nothing would stop her from doing the work she wanted to do when she wanted to do it.
The marshal looked deep into her little brother’s eyes. “And until we make our decision, you shouldn’t tell anybody about our discussions. All right, buddy?”
Spencer nodded and tried to look serious.
Good. The marshal’s request for silence would hold more weight than her ordering Spencer not to blab it about church and town.
“What about you, Celia?” His kind expression ruffled her.
She shrugged. “Adults do what they have to do.”
His mouth twisted a bit. She squirmed under his gaze, the same look he often gave her on Sundays when she got to arguing with him.
The marshal scooted to the edge of the bed. “Do we pray now, or something else?”
Spencer bounced onto his knees. “Mama always asks us what we want her to pray for, and then she prays.”
“All right then, what would you like me to pray for?”
Spencer bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling.
Celia sighed. No telling how long his list was going to be tonight.
“Well,” the boy drawled. “Whenever I ask Mama to pray for Mama, she always gets sad, so I’ll have you pray for her.” He snuggled close to the marshal.
Celia clenched her teeth.
Spencer looked at the marshal, eyes filled with admiration. Wouldn’t take Spencer long to forget about Daddy. “Maybe you can pray that Mama will have someone else to talk to instead of our pa?”
“What do you mean?” The marshal shot Celia a confused look.
“Well, she talks to him all the time.” Spencer shrugged. “Even though he’s not here anymore.”
Celia picked at her fingernails. “He means she still talks out loud to Daddy. She thinks we don’t hear her, but we do.”
“She cries sometimes too. You think God can help her not cry anymore?” Spencer’s lower lip stuck out.
“Sounds like a good thing to pray for.” The marshal tipped his head toward Celia. “Anything you want to add?”
“No.” She twisted her body around to gaze out the window, the rocking chair squeaking with the movement. She wasn’t sure what she wanted in regard to her mother marrying the marshal. And nothing could bring Daddy back, which was the only thing worth wishing for.
She brushed away the tears lining her eyelashes, hoping the marshal hadn’t seen them.
Chapter Five
Jacob shook his head at the Smiths’ lush lawn—complete with no sidewalk.
At the end of the month, he’d have to report them to the city council for not having one built according to the new city ordinance, and then next year, he’d have to endure their griping over how much the council had charged them to pay him to do it.
Though maybe he wouldn’t be here next month to serve the Smiths their notice or build their sidewalk for them.
Annie had offered him what no single woman trying to hogtie him into matrimony had ever offered—a ticket out of this job and a hardworking woman to help him ranch.
Besides, he wasn’t doing that well at being marshal anyhow. The only reason he was checking sidewalks was because he’d lost the rustlers’ trail this morning. North of Annie’s land, the tracks had forded a stream but hadn’t reappeared on the other side.
A few men this week had accused him of being lily-livered for not joining the lynch mob riding off every night in search of the rustlers, but he wasn’t about to be responsible for hanging a man without a trial like the self-declared posse had just a year ago.
He’d catch them the right way if he could catch them at all.
He stepped foot onto Main Street just as a girl’s high-pitched scream made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He pulled his hands from his pockets and scanned the street, hoping to catch the sound again.
“Help!” A little girl ran out of the alley straight for him. The child, not more than four or five, ran with her blond braids flying behind her.
He caught her and shoved h
er behind him. When nothing barreled out of the alleyway after her, he looked back at the little girl. “What’s wrong, young lady?”
“Monster’s scary.” She clung to his leg.
“Is there a monster around the corner?” At her nod, he squeezed her shoulder. “Stay here and I’ll have a look-see.” Probably just some street rascal pestering her. He untangled the girl’s fingers from his pant leg and deposited her beside the hitching post.
Ever since the Denver police started cracking down on vagrants and ne’er-do-wells, many had migrated north in Armelle’s direction. This monster could be something serious.
Taking quick strides, Jacob made the shadowed alleyway, and the moment he turned, his heart kicked up at the sight of a gigantic black monstrosity lumbering toward him, its hairy snout spasming. The five-hundred-pound sow plodded through the dirt, knocking over a haphazard stack of crates.
He waved to the creature, making sure she saw him before she bowled him over. “Stop, Lullabelle!”
The sow slowed and kicked back her head, her snort resonating in the alleyway.
“How many times do I have to take you home, pig?” He forged into the alley and grabbed a mop off a backdoor stoop. Using its handle, he encouraged the old sow to turn. “Maybe I ought to fine your owner the same day I serve a notice to the Smiths.”
Once Lullabelle started back the way she’d come, he moved back toward Main Street to check on the girl. The mercantile owner’s wife had stooped down to talk to the little blonde. Seemed he was free to corral the pig. “Come on, pig. Get movin’.”
Outside of town, Lullabelle meandered through the overgrown grass surrounding her owner’s ramshackle house. Jacob herded her into her pen, and then left a warning for Mr. Sullivan to keep his livestock secured.
Why even bother pretending he was a marshal rather than the town’s errand boy? Other than the rustlers he couldn’t catch, the worst crime in Armelle this month had been clothesline thievery. And the culprit was likely one of the students who often played hooky.
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