Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1)

by Julianne MacLean

  “Don’t worry. The bedbugs are minimal.”

  “Bedbugs?” she echoed, feeling her skin prickle all over.

  Briggs walked toward the door. “Now that you’re settled in, I gotta get to work. You’ll find all the food I got in that box over there and in the garden. You can expect me back around dusk.” He walked up the dirt steps without looking back, then disappeared into the daylight.

  Sarah stood wearily, wondering if he realized his house was a dark, depressing dungeon. She felt a sudden tickling at her neck and slapped at it, inspecting her palm for some frightening little creature with lots of legs. Finding nothing, she assured herself that she had imagined the sensation. It was probably just a loose sprig of hair.

  Sarah looked around with uncertainty. Briggs had given her no direction as to her duties, but he had said there was plenty to do. The obvious chore at the moment was to unpack her bag, then prepare dinner before he returned from the field. That couldn’t be too difficult, could it?

  She carried her bag to the bed, but when she found nothing that resembled a chest of drawers, she had little choice but to leave everything packed for the time being.

  Next, she went to the cupboard—an open wooden box by the stove—and knelt down to see what it contained. She found a sack of cornmeal, a small jar of sorghum molasses, some fat in another jar, coffee, flour, and some salt pork. A bag of potatoes sat next to the box, and beside that was a whole barrel of salt, half-full.

  How had Briggs survived before she’d arrived? No wonder he’d advertised for a wife.

  From this moment on, she decided, meals would improve around here. Tonight, he would bite into the best biscuits he’d ever tasted in his life. Sarah would find a way to make that salt pork into something mouth-watering, and her surly, stubborn husband wouldn’t be able to deny it.

  All she had to do now was light a fire and start working on the biscuits. She went to the stove and pulled open the door. Ashes. She sighed. Wondering when Briggs had last cleaned them out, she looked around for a shovel. Unable to find one, she scooped the residue out with a soup ladle and filled a bucket. When the stove was empty, she proudly swiped her palms together and looked around for some kindling.

  A careful inventory of the so-called kitchen left her with nothing flammable to speak of, so she went outside and searched the yard and the barn for firewood. Still nothing. What did he use to light fires? Grass, perhaps? It seemed he used it for everything else, but how could anyone keep a fire going with only grass?

  All of a sudden, she didn’t feel so clever. The simple task of cooking supper was now a daunting assignment. Her insides reeled with frustration. Briggs was probably crouching out in his field, spying on her and waiting for her to fail, even if it meant coming home hungrier than a lion to a wife in tears, hunched over an empty table.

  What was she going to do now? She couldn’t face him with a cold slab of salt pork when he came home, but she wasn’t about to waste time experimenting with the art of burning grass either. Heaven forbid her husband should return and discover her doing something wrong. She’d never hear the end of it.

  She walked onto the roof, raising a hand to shade her eyes from the sun while she looked all around for Briggs. Strangely, her stomach did a flip when she spotted him, far off across the field. He was piercing hay with a pitchfork and tossing it into his wagon. Standing shirtless in the tall grass, in that ivory-colored Stetson, he was an arresting sight to behold, like a perfect Adonis, exquisitely formed, and she couldn’t help but admire his impressive physique. There was something so manly and virile about him. It caused a tremor of lust in her belly as she remembered their lovemaking the night before.

  Despite everything, their wedding night had been more pleasurable and satiating than anything she could have imagined. She’d had no idea the marriage bed could be so sensuous and physically gratifying. If only there had been no secrets between them.

  She flopped down onto the grassy roof, trying to stay focused, because there was work to be done and she couldn’t spend the afternoon ogling her husband in the fields. She let out a groan. Why had he left her so soon without explaining in more detail how things were done here? She could feel an irksome lump forming in her throat, but she’d come this far. She was not about to fall apart now. All she had to do was venture out there and ask Briggs a few simple questions.

  May a thorn prick her pride for making it so difficult.

  Hiking along the wagon tracks, carrying a bucket of cold water and a tin cup, Sarah rehearsed her questions. She had to ask them in a way that made her seem confident and comfortable in her new surroundings. In order to truly feel that way, she had to learn a hundred-and-one new ways to be a wife, and fast.

  The bucket grew heavier with each labored stride she took into the hot summer wind, until her arm felt like it was being wrenched from its socket. Water sloshed and splashed into the grass, but she didn’t mind if it lightened her load a bit. All she had to do was ignore her own thirst and forget the idea of taking a drink herself before she reached her husband.

  Huffing and puffing, she tramped onward with forced confidence until Briggs looked up from his work. Exhilaration pulsed within her as their eyes met. How was it possible that his face kept getting more handsome? And she had to fight not to stare at his bronze, muscular chest with the sun raining down upon him, reflecting the droplets of perspiration like tiny diamonds. He paused for a brief second or two and watched her, then leaned to the task again, spearing hay with the pitchfork and tossing it over his shoulder into the wagon.

  “Hello there,” she said, reaching him at last.

  He pitched one last mound of hay, then stopped and leaned the fork against the wagon. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I brought you something to drink.” She set the bucket in the grass, scooped out a cup of water and held it out to him.

  He glared at it suspiciously, as if he thought it might contain arsenic. A trickle of sweat made a trail from his temple along his hairline, and he wiped it with his forearm before raising the cup to his lips. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head while Sarah watched his Adam’s apple chug. The skin on his neck shone with perspiration, and she found herself taking shallow breaths at the awesome sight of him.

  He drank the water then bent to fill another cup. Resting a muscled arm along the side of the wagon and crossing one ankle over the other, he met her gaze. “Not enough to keep you busy today?”

  “There’s plenty,” she responded, trying to come up with a dignified way to ask how to light a fire.

  “I appreciate the drink, but it wasn’t necessary.”

  Sarah wet her parched lips. “I thought you might be thirsty. And why do you have to make me feel irresponsible for trying to do you a favor?”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel anything at all, Sarah. If you feel irresponsible, don’t blame me.” He flicked the cup, tossing the last shimmering diamonds of water into the wind.

  “I don’t feel irresponsible! I...” She stopped herself, realizing with stunning presence of mind that she was reacting just as he wanted her to. He wanted to frustrate her, to punish her for the secret she’d kept from him last night, and for allegedly loving another man. Well, she wasn’t going to break. She wasn’t.

  “In all honesty, I would like nothing more than to get to work, but you left me behind with little idea as to how you like things done around here, so I had to come all the way out here to ask what you use for firewood. Now, whose fault is that?”

  A sly, subtle grin crossed his lips. He wiped his forearm across his mouth while Sarah resisted the thrill of staring into eyes that twinkled like emeralds.

  He set the cup on the wagon seat behind him. “You don’t know much about prairie living, do you?”

  Sarah clenched her jaw. “Of course not, but remember, you advertised for a wife in a city paper. What did you expect? So, don’t
go blaming me. And aside from that, why do I get the impression you’re happy about it? Happy that I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing?”

  “Happy? Me? I’ll be happy when I get this hay in. As for your domestic difficulties, I haven’t given them much thought.”

  She found that hard to believe.

  He walked to the horses to tug at a harness buckle. “Ask me anything and I’ll tell you. I’m not trying to keep any secrets.”

  Ah, I see. We’re back there again, are we?

  Sarah looked down at the bucket at her feet. “I just want to know what you use for firewood.”

  He came around to stand before her, only inches away. Her gaze fell to his hard, rippled stomach, and heat pooled low in her belly. Her heart began to race from fascination and desire.

  “Oh, yes. Firewood. You won’t find much of that out here.”

  Sarah managed to make eye contact. “What do you burn, then?”

  “We burn cow chips.”

  She frowned slightly, trying to interpret his meaning. “Cow chips? Do you mean...?”

  “Yep.”

  She wondered for a moment if this was a cruel joke, but decided her husband couldn’t possibly be that inventive. She could feel her insides beginning to whirl at the thought of collecting this so-called fuel and stoking the stove all day long. “Isn’t there anything else you can—”

  “Nope.”

  She swallowed uncomfortably. “Do you have a store of these chips in your barn?”

  Briggs shook his head. “No, but you should start one. Take the wheelbarrow and head out that way.” He stretched his long arm and pointed. “Herds drive by regularly. The chips will be scattered everywhere, nice and dry.”

  Sarah gazed despondently at the horizon.

  “Careful not to get lost,” Briggs added, removing his hat and bending forward. He lifted the bucket and dumped the remaining water over his head. It cascaded down over his hair and onto his shoulders, then he shook his head like a wet dog and splattered Sarah’s dress.

  She raised both hands and jumped back. “Do you mind? I’ve already had my bath today.”

  “Thought it might cool you off.”

  With the hot sun burning her face, Sarah stared for a stifling moment at the rivulets of water blazing silver trails down his chest, then she dutifully tore her gaze away and flicked her hand over the front of her bodice.

  Trying to recapture some of her dignity, she brushed a tendril of hair away from her perspiring forehead. “I’ll see you at dusk,” she announced curtly, pivoting on her heel and stomping away.

  She’d gone at least twenty paces before he called after her. “You forgot your bucket!”

  Sarah stopped and squeezed her eyes shut. She’d been so happy with that dramatic exit, too.

  Taking a deep, frustrated breath, she considered ignoring him and continuing on her way, but that was the only bucket in the house that wasn’t filled with ashes, and she’d likely need it to cook supper. Raising her chin, she turned and marched back with no shortage of theatrics. Sarah scooped up the empty bucket, glared at his insufferable, grinning face, then pivoted on her heel again. Ten more paces, and he called out one more time. “And your cup!”

  Sarah stopped. If she returned and met that self-satisfied expression one more time, she would likely swing her bucket by the handle and bat him over the head with it. After considering that option for a second or two, and receiving some satisfaction from the image in her mind, she forced herself to forget it. She would persevere. Sarah leaned into the wind and strode forward. Even if she was shriveling with dehydration, she would do without that cup until supper hour.

  Chapter 7

  This is almost comical, Sarah tried to convince herself, as she dropped her weary body into a chair, trying to translate her devastated dreams into something worth laughing about.

  In the past hour, she had stoked the stove with cow chips, carried the heavy corn meal sack to the table, added more chips to the fire, washed her hands, measured the flour, added more chips, washed her hands, measured the fat, mixed the biscuit dough, added more chips, washed her hands....

  Now, as she wiped perspiration from her brow and waited for the biscuits to cook, she wondered in a panic if she’d washed her hands again before dropping the biscuits onto the pan that last time.

  Maybe she’d pass on the biscuits tonight.

  Without warning, a dark silhouette appeared in the doorway. Sarah gasped and jumped to her feet. Briggs strode down the stairs, and she wished she’d heard him approach so she could have freshened up. She’d wanted so badly to appear in control, but her hair was a wild mess sticking to the back of her neck, and when she swept two fingers across her cheek, she discovered her face was damp with perspiration.

  “You got grease on your nose,” Briggs pointed out, reaching the bottom step and removing his hat, then stroking Shadow who had risen to greet him.

  Sarah turned away and frantically rubbed both hands over her face. When she faced Briggs again, he was sitting down at the table. Shadow returned to his spot on the floor by the bed.

  “Supper will be ready in one minute,” she said quickly, opening the squeaky oven door. The smell of golden, cooked biscuits floated out and filled the sod house. Sarah smiled triumphantly, hoping Briggs possessed a keen pair of nostrils.

  She reached into the hot oven and grasped the pan, using her apron to protect her hand, but exclaimed when the heat snuck through to her fingers. “Ouch!” She dropped the pan with a clatter onto the table, directly in front of Briggs.

  He leaned back in the chair, raising the front legs off the floor. She was sucking her stinging fingers. “Do I get a plate, or do you want me to eat off the hot pan?”

  Sarah pulled her fingers out of her mouth with a pop, then balled her hands into fists. The man was enjoying himself too much for her present mood. She turned on her heel, picked up two plates from a shelf by the stove, and set them onto the table. “There, how’s that? Would you like some fresh oysters and wine? Perhaps some strawberries and cream? It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Briggs stared up at her for a long second, then leaned forward and dropped the chair legs onto the dirt floor. “Difficult day was it, Mrs. Brigman?”

  “My name is Sarah, and you...” She clicked her teeth shut. Control yourself, she thought, closing her eyes to shut him out for a second or two. When she opened them, she forced a smile as sweet as candy, then took a deep, calming breath. “No, it wasn’t difficult at all. In fact, I found it quite pleasant. Would you like a beverage? I was just waiting for the biscuits to come out of the oven before I skipped down to the creek to fill a bucket of water.”

  A tremor of fatigue shook her as she stared spellbound into his deep, green-eyed gaze. Whatever emotion lurked beyond those eyes was a mystery to her, and she wondered dismally if a day would ever come when she would understand her husband’s mind. Or when she would no longer feel as if he was punishing her for their unfortunate beginning.

  Briggs leaned forward and rested an arm on the table. “The biscuits are out of the oven.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said the biscuits are out of the oven. What are you waiting for? Time to go skipping down to the creek.”

  Sarah took a step back, exasperated, resisting the desire to fling the hot pan of biscuits into his lap. Instead, she picked it up using her bunched apron, and with a measure of poise, scooped the biscuits into a bowl.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, wishing she’d had the forethought to carry the water up before she put the biscuits in the oven. But having to stoke the stove so often, she didn’t dare leave it alone.

  Wiping her hands on her skirt, she headed for the door, adding with a sharp bite, “Why don’t you relax for a minute? Put your feet up. I’ll be back in the shake of a lamb’s tail.”

  Fuming, she pick
ed up the bucket of water she’d used to wash her hands a hundred times that afternoon, climbed the steps, and emerged out of the stuffy sod house into the evening. The western horizon beyond the corn field glowed a radiant pink, and a cool breeze blew by, lifting the hair off the sticky skin at her neck. The walk to the creek would do her good, she decided, staring at the magnificent magenta sky and struggling to appreciate it.

  A short while later, when she returned to the house with a half-full bucket of water, she slowed when she discovered Briggs lounging in a chair outside the front door with his back to her, one foot raised and resting on a barrel, Shadow sitting beside him. They were both facing the sunset. Sarah stopped and gently set the bucket in the grass, realizing he hadn’t heard her footsteps beneath the hissing whisper of the wind across the grass and wheat.

  It was odd, how the first day of this marriage seemed more like a battle than a relationship. She had revealed nothing of her true self since they’d arrived here—but of course she was as much to blame as he was for the state of things at this moment. Probably more so, since she was the one who had admitted to loving someone else mere weeks before she accepted Briggs’s offer.

  Her battle instincts somewhat deflated, Sarah picked up the bucket and walked toward her husband. She understood where his hostility was coming from—they’d gotten off to a bad start, to be sure—and she realized she wanted things to be better. She was tired of being angry. It was time to stop perpetuating the friction. Perhaps, if she warmed up to him, he would let it go.

  When she paused in front of him, he dropped his leg to the ground and squinted up at her. “Did you have a nice skip down to the creek?”

  Putting it behind them, it seemed, was going to prove a challenge. “Yes, I did, thank you.” Her shadow fell across his face, and she waited for his next attempt to rile her, but surprisingly, he leaned forward and placed his large hand on her hip.

  Sarah’s blood burst into hot embers, speeding through her veins. What in Heaven’s name was he doing, and why couldn’t she relax about it? They were married, after all.