Schulze, Dallas

by Gunfighter's Bride

  “I did.” Angel gave her a solicitous look. “Did you have a good time too?”

  It was a perfectly innocent question but remembering how she’d spent the afternoon, Lila felt her cheeks flush. She was careful not to look at Bishop but she couldn’t shut out the sound of his voice.

  “Did you, Lila? Have a good time this afternoon?” His tone was full of wicked amusement, as if he already knew the answer. And he undoubtedly did, blast him. Considering he bore the marks of her nails on his back, she could hardly pretend that she didn’t know what he was talking about. There was no safe answer to his needling question so she chose the only reasonable option and ignored him.

  “Let’s go see if we can help Mrs. Sunday with anything,” she said, holding out her hand to Mary.

  “Mama told us to scat from the kitchen,” Mary said, taking Lila’s other hand with the friendly confidence of a child who knew she was well loved. “She said we were a pair of pestulant pests and that, if we didn’t get out of her kitchen, dinner wasn’t going to be done until breakfasttime.”

  “What’s a pestulant pest?” Angel asked, her blue eyes wide and questioning.

  “I guess it’s what you and Mary are,” Lila said. “Why don’t we see if we can find something useful for the two of you to do?”

  ***

  Bishop had never been a churchgoer. He didn’t have any quarrel with the Lord, he simply didn’t feel the need to formalize his relationship with Him by attending church. The last time he’d set foot in a church, he’d been younger than Gavin. He’d found a frog on the way to the service and put it in his pocket for safekeeping. The creature had escaped sometime during the service and made its presence known by jumping onto the piano keys just as Mrs. Cleary was beginning the second chorus of “Bringing in the Sheaves.” The resulting chaos had been caused more by her hysterical screams than by anything the frog did, but pointing this out had not saved him from a trip to the woodshed.

  The minister, a humorless man who viewed all humanity as a seething cauldron of sin and Bishop as a proof positive of that theory, had visited the McKenzie household the next day. He demanded—and got—an apology from Bishop. He also demanded the right to punish the boy personally and publicly. Bishop’s parents had refused and the sermon that followed had detailed the wages of sin and the dangers of allowing them to go unpunished. His parents had stood firm and the minister had departed, casting dark glances in Bishop’s direction.

  He’d learned several lessons from the incident: that the seat of his pants was no protection against a firmly wielded piece of hickory; that he wasn’t cut out to be a churchgoer; that being a man of God did not necessarily give a man a charitable nature; and never to bring a frog to church.

  Finding himself sitting down at a minister’s table twenty years later, he had to restrain the urge to check his pockets for stray frogs. He felt as out of place as a bull in a china shop or a sinner in church, for that matter. Glancing around the table, he half expected to catch a disapproving look or two but the only glance that crossed his was his hostess’s.

  “Another biscuit, Sheriff?” Bridget asked, lifting the bowl and offering it to him.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Sunday.”

  “A mite more stew then?” Bridget suggested. “There’s plenty more on the stove.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Leave the poor man alone,” Joseph ordered mildly. “He hasn’t had a chance to eat what he has.” He glanced at Bishop, his dark eyes holding a smile though his mouth remained solemn. “My wife believes that all the world’s ills could be solved if everyone ate more.”

  “You’ll not be trying to deny that hunger is at the heart of a great deal of the troubles in the world today, now will you?” Bridget asked her husband. “A man can’t be content when his belly’s empty, that’s a certainty. And a man who’s not content is a man likely to go looking for trouble. And that's always easy enough to find if you’re looking.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about anyone getting up from your table and looking for trouble,” Joseph told her, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “The only thing you have to worry about is whether they’ll be able to get up at all.”

  “You can laugh all you want.” Bridget sniffed. “But I don’t recall seeing you turn down a second helping in the last fifteen years.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Joseph admitted, chuckling. “I can certainly offer myself as evidence of the benefits of a full stomach making for a contented man. But that doesn’t mean that our guests want to find themselves as well stuffed as a Christmas goose, my dear.”

  Listening to the light exchange between the other couple, Lila wondered wistfully if she’d ever find that kind of ease in her own marriage. Would there come a time when they could laugh with each other the way Bridget and Joseph did? It was difficult to imagine such a thing. She stole a glance across the table at Bishop and found him looking at her. Their eyes locked for a moment. There was something questioning in his gaze, something that made her wonder if his thoughts had been running along a path similar to her own. Did he look into the future and wonder about their hasty marriage?

  A loud squeal broke into her thoughts and drew her attention to the end of the table where Bridget sat. George, the youngest of the five children, sat next to his mother. At not quite a year old, he was plump, rosy-cheeked, irresistible, and quite well aware of his charm. Perched on a stack of books, with a dish towel looped around his torso, under his arms, and tied in back of the chair, he waved his spoon with the enthusiasm of a medicine man holding a bottle of snake oil and repeated his squealed demand for attention.

  “Heavens above, George, where are your manners?” Bridget scolded softly. “You’ll have our guests thinking I’m raising a wild Indian, yelling at the table that way.”

  Delighted at finding himself the center of attention, George laughed, a fat chuckle that made it clear that he didn’t take his mother’s scolding seriously.

  “He seems like a very happy baby,” Lila commented, watching Bridget dexterously maneuver a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

  “He’s a spoiled young man, is what he is. Aren’t you, my pet?” Bridget mopped potato off his chin and returned his messy grin with a loving smile.

  Beneath the table, Lila touched one hand to her still-flat stomach. It still didn’t seem possible that she was carrying a child. In a few months, she’d be a mother. From the beginning, the idea had terrified her. Looking at George, for the first time she felt a twinge of anticipation. There was something enormously appealing about the way his eyes crinkled almost shut when he smiled. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that babies were always smiling cherubs, but still...

  Angel, who had been sitting quietly next to Lila, chose that moment to speak up, apparently reading her stepmother’s thoughts with devastating accuracy.

  “Lila’s going to have a baby,” she said cheerfully.

  Lila flushed as all eyes turned in her direction. There was nothing embarrassing about Angel’s announcement, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she could keep her condition a secret for much longer. But she couldn’t shake the idea that Bridget and Joseph had only to look at her to read the truth—-that her child had been conceived out of wedlock. Angel continued before anyone could offer any comment.

  “I like babies,” she said, filling the silence before it could become awkward. “I’m going to have a hundred of them when I grow up.”

  Her extravagant claim caused the adults to chuckle. “I’ll offer up a prayer for your husband, then,” Joseph told her. “He’s going to have his hands full with such a houseful.”

  “I’m going to marry Joey,” Angel said calmly. She bestowed a sweet smile on Joseph, Jr., who turned crimson with embarrassment. At twelve, he had his mother’s red hair and his father’s quiet nature. From the moment she’d been introduced to him, Angel had viewed him as her personal property.

  There was another round of laughter but, looking at, her stepda
ughter, Lila found herself wondering if perhaps young Joseph shouldn’t start looking for a way to earn sufficient money to support a large family. If there was one thing she’d learned about Angel, it was that, underneath her sweet exterior, was a will of solid iron. In fifteen years, if she still had her eye on Joseph, Lila wouldn’t be surprised if she got him.

  The potentially awkward moment was past and the conversation continued without anyone mentioning Lila’s pregnancy again. The rest of the evening passed without incident. Lila insisted on helping Bridget clean up after supper. Though she’d grown up with servants and had always assumed she’d one day have servants of her own, her mother had made sure that Lila was capable of running a household without them. She might not have washed many dishes but she knew how to go about it, just as she could wash clothes, mop a floor, and, if necessary, make her own soap to do those tasks.

  She and Bridget worked companionably, talking as easily as if they’d known each other for years rather than a matter of days. Bridget’s friendship, new as it was, had helped to ease the homesickness Lila had felt at finding herself abruptly transplanted two thousand miles away from family and friends. By the time the evening ended, she was feeling relaxed and at ease.

  The walk back to the hotel was enlivened by Angel's recitation of her day’s adventures. She’d spent most of her time playing with Mary, but Lila noted the number of times the name Joey was mentioned and guessed that she’d managed to make herself known to her future husband in no uncertain terms. Gavin, as usual, had little to say. When questioned directly, he lifted one shoulder in a shrug and said that he liked the Sundays well enough. Coming from her taciturn stepson, that was high praise.

  Though she was vividly aware of Bishop’s presence, as long as the children were with them, Lila felt safe. He’d already agreed to leave their room arrangements as they were. She’d simply make sure that they didn’t find themselves alone again the way they had this afternoon. She had no intention of being caught off guard that way again, not until she’d worked a few things out in her own mind.

  Bishop was just as glad that the children were with them too. Though a part of him wanted nothing more than to be able to take his wife back to bed, another part of him found the very strength of that desire something of which to be wary. There was a danger in wanting something so much. It could make a man vulnerable.

  They parted outside Lila’s door, each acutely aware of the other, neither willing to let it show.

  ***

  “The house has been empty for six months,” Bishop said as he unlocked the door. “Pete Moreton built it when he struck a vein of silver. He was planning on bringing his girl out from Boston but, when he sent for her, she wrote back to tell him she’d married somebody else. No one ever lived here.”

  “What happened to Mr. Moreton?” Lila asked as she stepped across the threshold, lifting her skirts a little to keep them clear of the dust on the floor.

  “He got drunk, lost his mine in a poker game and left town, heading for Nevada.” He left the door open behind them, letting sunlight spill in across the dusty room.

  “The poor man. He must have loved her very much.”

  “He was a fool,” Bishop said flatly. “He hadn’t even seen her in almost ten years.”

  “So he was a fool to still love her?” Lila slanted him a questioning glance.

  “He didn’t love her. After all those years, he didn’t even know her any more. He was in love with a memory.”

  “Perhaps. But perhaps not. I think real love can withstand a great deal, including time apart.”

  There was a wistfulness in her tone that made Bishop suddenly remember the boy she’d been engaged to, the one who’d died. Was she thinking about her dead fiancé?

  “I guess this wasn’t real love then, was it? Lucky for us, Pete built the house before he found that out.”

  Lila looked a little startled by his tone or perhaps by his callous dismissal of the other man’s loss. Bishop turned away from the questions in her eyes, crossing the room with brisk strides to push open a window, letting in a wave of crisp air. He turned and gave the room a critical look.

  “He furnished the place for her too. Had all this stuff hauled up the mountain from Denver.”

  “That will certainly make things simpler,” Lila said. She ran her finger through the layer of dust on a small end table. “Who owns this place now?”

  “The bank does. They gave Pete a mortgage based on what the mine was worth. When he left town, he left Frank Smythe holding the mortgage. There’s not much call for houses this size in Paris so it’s been empty since. Not many miners have families with them.”

  As he spoke, Lila was flicking back the corner of the sheet that covered an upholstered wing chair, studying it critically. Watching her, Bishop was acutely aware that this house, while nice by local standards, was a far cry from what she’d grown up with. He wouldn’t be surprised if she turned her nose up at the idea of living here, he thought as he watched her move from room to room. She was, after all, Lila Adams of the Philadelphia Adamses. Changing her name to McKenzie couldn’t change who and what she was.

  “Is the furniture included in the rent?” she asked as she returned to the front room.

  “Yes.”

  She tugged the sheet completely off the sofa, dropping it on the floor while she stood back and surveyed what she’d uncovered. Bishop looked at the sofa and thought about the exquisite heirlooms that furnished River Walk. The comparison was painful.

  “Not exactly Queen Anne,” he said.

  “Since I’m not particularly fond of Queen Anne, I consider that to be in its favor.” She finished her study of the sofa and turned on her heel, giving the room one last inspection before looking at him.

  “Is the rent reasonable?”

  “It’s reasonable,” he said, surprised by the practicality of the question. He’d been expecting her to reject the house out of hand.

  “It needs a good cleaning, of course.” She glanced critically at the dusty surfaces and grimy windows. “But all in all, I think it will do quite nicely. Mr. Moreton may have been a poor judge of females but he did quite nicely when it came to houses. When can I start cleaning?”

  “Anytime.” Bishop was stunned by her easy acceptance of the house. She actually looked pleased with it!

  “Good. I’ll need to get some things at Fitch’s,” Lila said, thinking out loud. “A little furniture wax and some fresh curtains on the windows and you’ll hardly recognize the place.”

  He stared at her, thinking that he knew her even less than he’d realized.

  ***

  It was while she was cleaning the house that the idea came to Lila. Pete Moreton had either planned on having a family right away or he’d believed in building for the future. In addition to the parlor and large kitchen, there were four rooms of varying sizes that would certainly function as bedrooms. The largest bedroom was furnished with a rather elegant maple bedframe, with a matching dresser and wardrobe. Angel immediately claimed the smallest room as her own because she liked the view of the mountains through the single window. Gavin professed indifference to his sleeping quarters so Lila gave him the room next to his sister’s.

  That left one room empty. Since it wasn’t furnished, she had no way of knowing what purpose the , departed Mr. Moreton might have had in mind for it, but its position right next to the large bedroom seemed to cry out for it to be a nursery. If she narrowed her eyes a bit, she could envision how it would look with soft gingham curtains hanging at the windows, a cradle against one wall, with perhaps a rocking chair beside it.

  She pressed her hand against her stomach, her mouth curving in a wistful smile. This baby was starting to seem more real every day. She could almost see herself sitting in that rocking chair, cradling a child in her arms. The image was fuzzy around the edges but it was much clearer than it had been even a few days ago. She shook her head, forcing her mind back to the matters at hand. It would be several months yet before
they had any need of a nursery. For the moment, the room could remain empty.

  Lila was halfway out of the room when the idea came to her. She stopped short and turned around, looking at the sunny room through new eyes. A quick mental refurnishing and her mouth curved in a smile. It was perfect. And practical. Her smile faded a little as she considered whether Bishop would agree with her. But if she presented it to him a fait accompli, surely he wouldn’t offer any argument. Well, not much of an argument.

  Her jaw setting with determination, she spun on her heel, her skirts swishing against the newly waxed floor, and hurried from the room. Bishop had told her to do what she wanted with the house, that he didn’t have any opinions about furnishings and such like. She was simply taking him at his word.

  ***

  Bishop was amazed by the transformation Lila had worked. With just a few days’ work, she’d taken the empty house and turned it into a home. The floors were covered with a fresh coat of wax, new curtains hung at the windows, and every surface was dust free and gleaming. The big stove had received a new layer of blacking. A cast-iron Dutch oven sat on one of the burners, filling the room with the rich scents of meat and potatoes. Dishes were neatly stacked on shelves, and there was even a handful of wildflowers tucked into a glass jar and set in the middle of the table.

  It had been a very long time since he’d lived in a house where there were flowers on the table. His first wife had liked to have flowers in the house, but her tastes had run to roses in a crystal vase. He couldn’t imagine Isabelle picking wildflowers and setting them in a jar of water. Considering her upbringing, he would have expected Lila to feel the same. Yet there the flowers were, taking pride of place in the middle of the kitchen table.

  Obviously, he had a lot to learn about his second wife.

  He went looking for Lila. He’d brought her trunks over earlier today and he could see that she’d been busy unpacking. Lacy doilies decorated every surface. Antimacassars covered the backs of the sofa and chairs. A china clock with richly curving sides sat on the mantel in the parlor, flanked by a pair of silver candlesticks. There were new curtains in here, simple muslin drapes, drawn back to allow the late-spring sunshine to spill across the newly polished floor, picking out the grain in the wood and making it gleam golden.