Romancing the Bride

by Melissa Jagears

  What had she been thinking?

  Without looking at Mr. Owens, she paid for her groceries and left.

  A trickle of wind played in her hair on the sidewalk in front of the mercantile, and the sun gently warmed her face, but she no longer had the desire to stroll down Main Street and stop in the shops she’d been hoping to browse this afternoon.

  She marched down the road and within minutes slipped into Jacob’s house. Once the door closed behind her, she let her shoulders droop. How many people thought as Mrs. Tate did?

  Gwendolyn probably.

  Leah? Her expression during the wedding had been practically aglow. She likely didn’t think too badly of her. And yet, how would anyone know if Leah thought badly of them? She seemed too kind to hurt anyone’s feelings, whether they deserved censure or not.

  Upstairs, it seemed Celia and Spencer were having a tiff, but since their argument sounded less than serious, Annie trudged into the pantry. The dim room closed in upon her as she set her purchases on the shelves. Despite going to the mercantile more this past week than she had the last two months, the shelves still appeared bare. Of course, this pantry had been originally built for a family of eight. She’d have to fight the urge to keep buying foodstuffs simply to fill in spaces.

  Once she’d unloaded her basket, she flipped a crate upside down in the dark corner, sat on it and cupped her chin in her hands.

  Despite no window in the pantry, the air smelled of loam and impending rain. If she’d been home, she’d be weeding and tending seedlings already. Her gardens would’ve produced enough to fill this pantry two times over, but not this summer.

  Without a ranch’s endless needs to take care of, how was she supposed to fill her days? Go visiting, throw tea parties?

  Mrs. Tate wouldn’t come to chat considering she looked down her nose at Annie for throwing off society’s expectations in order to save her ranch and had failed to do even that.

  If she found the gumption to host a party, how many townswomen would decline the invitation?

  Annie rubbed her eyes, but she had no more tears. She’d shed enough these past two weeks, that if she’d collected them, Mrs. Tate would’ve been satisfied with how thoroughly she’d mourned. She’d not had time to cry when Gregory died at the beginning of November. She’d had livestock to feed, ice to melt for drinking water, wood to haul, and her children’s grief to attend.

  Annie wiped at her very warm but dry eyes and hung her head.

  The night after she’d married Jacob, the dammed up tears had burst forth and awakened Celia, so for the last two weeks, she’d cried silently to make sure no one heard, not Celia, not Spencer, not Jacob.

  No, Mrs. Tate. I know how to mourn.

  Life hadn’t given her the time to grieve a year and a day like a proper woman should.

  Asking Jacob to marry her had been the only thing she’d gotten right this past month, for if she hadn’t, her children would be homeless. And yet, every day since the wedding, she’d fought the desire to hole up in Jacob’s tiny third bedroom and never come out.

  Just when she’d cried herself out and was ready to move on, Mrs. Tate judged her for it.

  Spencer’s squeal as he thumped down the stairs, followed by the door slamming and Celia’s muttering, made Annie suck in a deep draught of air.

  She was supposed to be working on becoming a better wife and mother. Neither of which she could do in a dark pantry corner hiding from Mrs. Tate’s censure.

  Annie grabbed two cans of beans Jacob stocked by the dozens. If they were good enough for him before she came, they’d be good enough now if he showed up.

  After preparing cornbread and placing it in the oven, Annie poured the beans into a pot.

  She peeked outside to make sure Celia was still watching Spencer—she wasn’t, but at least she was reading on the porch swing near where he was twirling a rope above the neighbor’s playful kitten.

  An urge to tell them to get to their chores bubbled up, though there were none to be done on a Saturday in town.

  She dropped the curtains back into place and went to read Jacob’s note again. He’d hoped to be gone quite a while if it meant he’d catch the rustlers.

  But if he went alone...

  She’d not heard anyone mention he’d taken along any men. What if he was outnumbered?

  She ran her finger over his last two words. Love, Jacob.

  Of course, that was the proper way to end a letter, but the thought of being loved again when she’d figured all hope of that was gone...

  Which it would be if he never returned.

  How many days needed to pass before she should round up men to go looking for him? Should she have gone around town and asked some to follow after him the moment she’d found his note?

  Pushing herself away from Jacob’s desk, she went back to preparing lunch.

  The beans had started to burn on the bottom. Probably a good thing she hadn’t bought the oysters. She’d likely have blackened them into a crisp with how well she was paying attention.

  No sooner had the cornbread browned than Jacob walked through the door with a handful of flowers he immediately stuck in her grandmother’s empty vase. “I’m home.”

  His deflated tone made her stiffen.

  Was he not happy to be home?

  Of course, this house was no longer a place of sanctuary for him. Not with Spencer’s hooting and hollering and Celia’s stormy temper. “I’m glad you’ve come back.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched into a fleeting smile, but his shoulders stayed slumped as he pulled off his coat and hung his hat.

  “Would you call in the children?”

  “Lunch ready, then?” He crossed over to the oven but frowned at the contents of the pot. “Canned beans?”

  “Yes.” She banged the lid onto the pot. “You didn’t expect something fancy, did you?” Her hand stilled on the handle. She shouldn’t have snapped. It wasn’t his fault oyster soup wasn’t boiling on the stove.

  He searched her eyes, his breath whispering across her cheek. “No.” The corners of his mouth drooped. “It’s just that I’d looked forward to ... well, it doesn’t matter, now does it?” His voice dropped and strangled into silence. The dark circles under his eyes indicated he wasn’t ungrateful, just weary.

  She reached for his sleeve, but missed as he turned to head out the door.

  “I’ll call in the kids.”

  “Jacob, I—” The whine of the door’s hinges was followed by its subsequent slam. She lowered her hand.

  Outside the window, Jacob ruffled her son’s hair.

  How dare she be prickly when he’d done nothing but give, give, give?

  Spencer ran inside and hugged her leg.

  Jacob walked in behind him and grabbed Spencer around his middle. “Boy, let’s get you out of those muddy pants.”

  Her son giggled as Jacob flipped him upside down over his shoulder. They ascended the staircase, and Annie frowned as she watched them leave.

  He was already on his way to being a better father than she was a mother. She needed to get herself together and—

  “Beans?” Celia slammed the lid back on the pot and wrinkled her nose. “That’s all?”

  Now, if anyone deserved being snapped at for their unappreciative tone it was Celia, yet she hadn’t the desire to fight with her girl today. She rubbed her face. “There’s cornbread too. Sit please.” She grabbed the bowls and divided the meager meal.

  Jacob and Spencer tromped down the stairs, and Annie forced herself to slide Jacob’s bowl of beans in front of him instead of throwing the contents out for slop and announcing she needed more time to make lunch.

  While they ate, Jacob kept up a steady banter with the children about their studies, Celia grudgingly giving vague answers, Spencer bubbling over with unnecessary detail.

  But Jacob asked her nothing as she choked down the beans to which she hadn’t even added seasoning.

  “If you will excuse me.” Jacob stood before
the rest of them finished and folded his napkin. “I’m going to take a nap.” Without waiting for an answer, he strode toward the stairs and disappeared.

  Celia cocked an eyebrow at her mother.

  Annie looked away to stare out the window. Her daughter was right to assume Jacob’s leaving the table early was her fault.

  She’d never been in the dark on what Gregory had thought of her, for he told her straight, often bluntly, but Jacob was always asking after her feelings rather than venting his. Always trying to put her at ease when she was the one who’d messed up his world.

  She’d not even gotten around to asking him how his trip had gone so focused was she on grumbling to herself about the awful food she’d welcomed him home with.

  This self-sacrificing man needed a better wife.

  Tonight, supper would be better.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jacob slogged up to his back door after a week of degrading work and getting nowhere with his inquiries about Annie’s property, but today had been the worst. What chance did he have of a conflict-free evening tonight? He stretched a few kinks from his shoulders and rubbed his face before entering.

  Inside, he wasn’t surprised to find the kitchen empty despite something smelling of onions and garlic simmering on the stove. “Anne?”

  Since he’d lost the rustlers’ tracks two weeks ago, she’d been intent on cleaning every nook and cranny of the house, polishing everything to a high luster, finding things in crevices and under furniture he’d not even realized he owned.

  Surely she was about out of rooms to tidy. He’d told her such meticulous housekeeping wasn’t necessary, but she’d insisted it was the least she could do while he worked.

  He groaned as he lowered himself into a kitchen chair to pull off his boots. Since he was home early, perhaps he could convince her to take a break and talk to him a bit. With the children always about and the in-depth cleaning she was doing, getting her to open up seemed impossible.

  At least she fed him well. He’d apologized for complaining about the beans, but she’d not cooked the same thing twice since.

  Annie peeked out from the pantry, her hair falling about her face in a rather adorable way. “Jacob?” She glanced at the clock and then back at him. Her hands stilled in the towel she was wiping her hands with. “What happened to you?”

  He examined his mud-caked pants and figured telling her the truth might ruin her appetite. But if he wanted her to open up to him, keeping things to himself—even the not so nice things—wouldn’t do.

  “I had to dig up the—” His mouth went dry, so he swallowed. “I had to relocate the, um, residents of Hillview Cemetery today.”

  “Cemetery? You mean corpses?” At his nod, her face contorted, and she placed a hand against her throat. “Whatever for?”

  He wiped his palms against his denim trousers, trying to erase the sensation of the coffinless he’d dealt with this afternoon. “Creek water won’t stop encroaching on the graves. So the council voted to move the cemetery to higher ground.”

  She walked into the kitchen, but stopped several feet shy of him and put a hand against her cheek. “And they made you do it? They made you disturb the...” Her voice disappeared on a whisper.

  He cringed, strangely feeling as if he needed to apologize. “I’m afraid so.” Though he knew other marshals raked alleys and corralled livestock, and maybe even some had to worry about terrible sidewalks, digging up corpses was beyond the pale. He stripped off his gun belt and tossed it onto the table. Why bother wearing it? He’d never used his Colt and probably never would, not here in Armelle anyway. Not when he was expected to do all the dirty jobs no one wanted. “What else would the mayor have me do? Arrest rustlers, shut down gambling halls, breakup brothels? No, not when sidewalks need fixed and flooded cemeteries rearranged.”

  He still couldn’t believe McGill had reprimanded him for not repairing the broken street lamps before charging off after the rustlers.

  “You are washing up before supper, yes?”

  The stink emitting from his clothing was more than just his own body odor. He shivered. “I plan on taking a scalding bath if I can manage it.”

  “Good.” She gave him a small smile and then disappeared back into the pantry.

  The muscle in his upper lip twitched. Would it kill her to sit and talk a little? But then, with how he smelled, now was not the time to insist on getting to know each other better. He grabbed the sun-warmed water off the porch, emptied the hot water reservoir from the stove, and stalked off into the washroom.

  After filling the tub and gingerly slipping into the water, he listened to Annie scurrying about in the kitchen and sighed. They should know each other better by now. It was nigh on a month since they’d been married, and not a day went by that she didn’t seem to grow a bit more enticing, but it seemed they did little but share a house.

  He was going to have to do something about that. But what?

  With Spencer vying for his attention the moment he came home, the uneasy dance they all performed to keep Celia from ruining everyone’s night, and his inability to stay up much past eight o’clock with all the work McGill was assigning him and his attempts to search for the rustlers until daylight disappeared, he’d had a hard time finding quiet moments to spend with his wife.

  And though she likely thought no one heard her occasionally crying in the middle of the night, he had. But what could he do when he was shut out, uninvited? Thankfully, she seemed to have bucked up in the past few weeks, either that or he slept too hard to notice her crying now.

  He didn’t want to force himself upon her in any fashion. Yet he hadn’t known how hard it would be to feel unwanted.

  Patience, Jacob. Patience.

  Her mourning wouldn’t end any sooner if he told her he was lonely. He’d only make her feel guilty. Having her pay attention to him out of guilt wouldn’t feel good at all.

  How long did it take to court a woman anyway? Most couples were together a year before they married, were they not?

  If they had courted first, they still would’ve had time constraints and children to deal with, so maybe he needed to find time rather than just hope for it.

  Besides, being married already gave him quite the advantage. The second Annie could no longer resist his charms, things could be immediately more pleasant around here.

  Jacob swiped a bar of soap off the shelf and hummed a happy tune.

  Annie tapped the buttermilk bread. Not quite done. Trying new recipes—though nothing with oysters—had kept her busy, but she sorely missed her garden. Through the back window, she eyed the corner of Jacob’s small lot. No time for building cold frames, but maybe she could squeeze in a small garden and reap a harvest before the frosts came.

  Thumping sounded from the washroom, followed by Jacob’s deep masculine growl. A trickle of warmth ran from her neck to her shoulder blades. She’d married Jacob to replace her husband the rancher, not her husband the lover, yet in just a few weeks, Jacob attracted her more than she’d thought possible.

  And not just because of his good looks, but he regularly replaced the wilted contents of her grandmother’s vase with fresh wildflowers without being asked, took Spencer outside to play catch almost every night despite being ready to fall over with exhaustion, asked about her day as if he cared about laundry and scrubbed floors, turned those liquid brown eyes on her more often than not.

  But she wasn’t ready to do anything about that attraction.

  Shouldn’t be, not when she still woke up at night wondering for a second or two where she was and where Gregory had gone.

  “Anne!” Jacob’s holler made her heart skip a beat.

  Had Spencer put that horned toad in the washroom again?

  “Anne. Come here, please.”

  And Anne. Only Gregory had called her Anne—’Anne, darling,’ actually. And only when he’d been feeling amorous.

  She stole to the door and spoke through the crack. “Yes?”

  �
�I forgot a towel.” Water swished. “And clothing for that matter. Would you mind running upstairs and grabbing me some?”

  “S-sure,” she stammered. She stood for a second outside the washroom with her hand upon her chest. Where was Spencer?

  She made her way to the parlor to check the clock. Too early for him to be home from school. She’d have to go into the washroom and hand a dripping, undressed Jacob a bundle of clothing. As she climbed the stairs, her breathing grew choppier than a single flight of exercise should’ve caused.

  She opened his door and blinked at the numerous windows letting in light. Her room was only a third of this size and had but one window.

  Though she’d cleaned every other room in this house twice, she hadn’t so much as swept in here. She’d not felt right invading the last of his space. Though he’d reacted well enough to them taking over the rest of his house, he never complained when she handed him his clothes to put away, in fact, he’d thanked her.

  She took a deep breath and barged in.

  A simple, but rather large bed covered by a worn quilt took up a quarter of the floor space. A stout wardrobe, a tall dresser with a tiny mirror attached to its top, and a plain washstand along the east wall stood clutter-free. Sparse and basic, yet the room smelled of him—something like cloves and moss and perspiration.

  Haphazardly opening drawers, she assembled an outfit and slipped back out of the room as quickly as possible.

  The hand on the clock in the parlor had barely moved since she’d gone upstairs, but Spencer might’ve been let out of school early.

  She poked her head out the back door. “Spencer?”

  Birds in the nearby trees scolded her for disturbing their peace.

  No patter of running feet. No cheery, “Coming, Mama.” Just water noises from the washroom to the side of the kitchen. She let the back door click shut and straightened her shoulders.

  She’d been a married woman. She was a married woman. Hugging his clothing to her chest, she stamped to the washroom. Her fingers felt slippery on the doorknob. “Jacob?”