Before he could turn and catch her looking at him, Erin lowered her gaze to the floorboard.
But her movement drew his unwanted attention. “If you’re shaking with cold, why didn’t you say something?”
His voice was colder than the wind and harder to bear. He drew up, tying off the reins before she thought of a reply
“Save me from useless women,” he muttered, grabbing the blanket from her lap. “Get up,” he then ordered.
Erin stood up, but there was nowhere to brace herself without touching him. That, she would not do.
With a few deft motions, Mace opened the blanket, spread it on the seat and impatiently ordered her to sit. Erin sat. She chewed on her lower lip as he tossed one end of the blanket to her and unwrapped the reins from the pole brake. The wagon lurched and she lunged forward, having nothing to grab hold of.
Erin fell against Mace’s outstretched arm and jumped back as if burned. She dragged the two ends of the blanket together, instantly feeling warmer, and turned to thank him.
“Don’t bother. You won’t be much good if you’re sick. It’s bad enough we got a late start today. But come first light, I’ll expect you to have breakfast ready for all of us.” Since he was the one who broke the silence, he waited for an answer. Just let her say one word wrong. Just one.
But Erin merely nodded. “I understand.”
He had to wonder if she did. And he didn’t understand why he goaded her. “There’s all the house chores, of course. And the chickens, milking and laundry. Just ours, not the hired hands’. There’s four year-round men who get three meals a day ’cept on Sundays. Come branding time there’s as many as sixteen.” Again he paused, waited, and from the corner of his eye saw her nod.
“Did I forget to mention the hogs? You’ll care for them, too.”
“Yes,” she answered in a tight little voice, bewildered by what he meant. How did one take care of hogs? Chickens laid eggs, and gathering those couldn’t be too hard. And how difficult could it be to milk a cow?
“Sure relieves my mind to know you’re not put off by a little hard, honest work. There’s no room for a useless woman on a working ranch.” For good measure, still trying to get a rise from her, he added, “I’m pleased to know you’re not a nosy woman who’s always asking stupid questions.”
Erin heard the taunt in his voice and knew she would bite the tip off her tongue before she asked him anything. But the questions burned to be spoken. She longed to know what the names of the massive trees were that lined the dirt road and absorbed the sunlight at their towering tops. She wanted to ask the names of the birds she heard, and the mountains in the distance. She needed to know more about his children, the hired hands, his home. What would he tell them about her? She kept quiet.
Glancing again at his profile, Erin knew what Maddie would have called him after one look. Mace Dalton was a hard piece of business. Hard and business summed up her forthcoming relationship with the man.
But after last night, he was offering her more than she expected, if a bit less than she had hoped for.
The road angled around a bend and Erin’s breath caught. High above the valley rose majestic mountain peaks. Clouds hid their tops, softening the line of ragged granite, and as the road declined she wondered if the Lord had scooped out the bowl where the ranch buildings sprawled below.
In his last letter to her, Mace had not elaborated about the size of his ranch. There was the house itself, two barns, outbuildings whose number she lost count of. Corral fences checkered the valley floor, cattle as black as her own hair in some, russet-coated animals in others. Horses filled a few, some alone, others with small herds. As they neared the house, details came to her, the sun slanting on the weathered gold of the logs, the grayish chinking between them. Smoke curled from two chimneys, lazily rising, for the wind had been left behind. Nothing spoke of neglect, but then, Mace Dalton was a man who demanded perfection.
The enormity of her deceit hit Erin. Everywhere she rested her gaze bespoke pride. Mace had every right to his pride. And every right to his anger. She vowed then that he would never have cause to regret his decision to bring her into his home.
Mace was already regretting his decision to bring her here. He guided the horse team around to the back of the house, perplexed why no one was around. Glancing at her as he tied off the reins, he had doubts she would survive until spring. The edge of the blanket hid all but her eyes, and those ridiculous little feathers on her hat drooped almost as much as she did.
“We’re here,” he said, hoping for a word of praise. He was proud, maybe too much so, of the home he had carved from this valley.
Erin, waiting in dread that someone would greet them, was afraid of what he would say and so remained quiet.
With the kind of swearing better suited to a muck pile, Mace jumped down and came around to her side of the wagon. He held out his arms, waiting for her to move.
Erin measured the distance to the ground. She released the blanket, gripped the side of the wagon and managed to get one leg over the side before he grabbed her by the waist and swung her out and down. She fought to recover her balance on legs cramped from sitting too long in the cold, but his standing there, dark and overpowering, made her back away. The smooth leather soles of her high-buttoned shoes were never meant to achieve purchase on river-smooth gravel. Erin slipped, then regained her balance as Mace came forward, reaching for her. Her arms wore the livid bruises from his punishing grip of the night before and she had no desire for more. She slipped again and he was faster than her move to dodge him.
Hauled up against his powerful body, Erin felt the chill leave her just as her breath did.
“Woman, you’re gonna be useless if you’re this clumsy.”
“I’m not. I just—”
“Or was this a ploy to get me to put my hands on you again?”
“N-no. I wouldn’t—” Erin stopped herself from saying another word. Her lips parted, quivering, as she looked up, directly into his eyes.
Mace felt heat explode through him. Every place he was hard, she was soft. Her eyes darkened to a green blaze that provoked in him every male instinct to conquer. The small unconscious sound she made sent need surging into his blood. But the force of will that he used to subdue it shocked him.
“Stop it,” he demanded, knowing he was being unreasonable. He knew on some deep level that she was innocent of what she did to him. “Just stop pushing me.”
Erin stared at his fierce expression with dismay. She was bewildered by his accusation. Suddenly dealing with Mace Dalton became too much. She yanked free of his grip, turning and running up the three steps to the door.
“Wait. I need to tell—”
Erin didn’t hear him. She opened the door and froze on the threshold.
Chapter Eight
Flour. At first that was all Erin saw. There was tracks through the layer of it that covered the wooden floor. Her every inhaled breath drew flour dust into her lungs. And burnt offerings. The air was thick with smoke.
A coating of white had drifted over the large wooden table and chairs. Below the table were clumps of it, and a few decorated the wall. The cast iron stove threw off a heat that was stifling.
Erin’s gaze moved with reluctance toward the window. Standing by the dry sink, one slender hand on the pump handle, was a child of startling beauty. Straight black hair was clumsily forced into a semblance of a braid. Delicate arched brows framed eyes nearly as dark as her hair, and her skin was the smooth color of caramel. The child’s small pointed chin came up, but the movement was lost on Erin, for she saw the startled fright in the child’s eyes. It was a look she had seen too many times when she was growing up in the orphanage. She was sure her own eyes often held the same look.
While the fear in the child’s expression was enough to hold her silent, she turned and stared at Mace. Every feeling of having been fooled, of his failure to tell her about his children, was there for him to see. The girl had Indian blood.
He met her look with defiance, ready to do battle for his children.
Erin never gave him the chance. She could not hurt a child no matter what its heritage was. Ignoring the flour, she stepped into the kitchen.
“You must be Rebecca.”
“Becky. That’s what everybody calls me.”
“I’m Erin, Becky.”
From beneath the dry sink’s lopsided skirt came a faint whisper. “Is she here, Becky?”
“Come on out, Jake. They’ve seen it all.”
With barely a rustle of material, a little boy peered around Becky’s faded calico skirt, one grimy hand gripping the once white apron she wore. He was a miniature replica of his sister, or so Erin judged from the little she could see.
“Are you the new mommy?”
“If that’s what you’d like me to be, Jake, then I am.” Erin began unpinning her hat, handing over pins and hat to Mace, who still stood behind her. “Since my bags need to be unpacked, Becky, do you think you could lend me an apron so I can help you clean up?”
“Sure. You can have mine. Well, it’s mine now, but it belonged to my mother.”
“Then I’ll need to take extra special care of it for today.” Erin stepped closer. Why hadn’t Mace told her about his children? Was this prideful man ashamed of them?
“Where’s Ketch?” Mace asked, still tense, still waiting for Erin’s anger. He was ready for it. Just let her say one word. He’d tell her what for and then some. Guilt wormed its way between the layers of tension and lingering betrayal. He should have told her about his children, not for her sake, but for theirs. He’d never thought how they would feel when she rejected them. No. He wouldn’t let her. After what she had done to him, she owed him. And he was just the man to see the debt paid in full. No one was going to slight them.
Becky glanced from her father to the woman tying on the apron. Something was wrong. She wouldn’t ask her father now, but she had to know. Dragging Jake out from behind her with one hand, she said, “This is my little brother, Jake. He’s not one for talking.”
“Becky, where’s Ketch?” Mace didn’t know how to halt the defensiveness in his voice. He didn’t want Erin to judge his children or his home and find them wanting. No matter what anyone thought or said, he was proud of Becky and Jake and gave them all the love he had.
“Ketch is sleeping. His tooth starting hurting again and he tried to put just a bit of whiskey on it, but it wasn’t enough.”
Erin had held her tongue at Mace’s harsh tone, but she couldn’t be still now. “How could you leave your children with a drunkard?”
“He’s no drunkard. Ketch can’t drink or he passes out.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Don’t make snap judgments about any of us.”
Erin looked at him, but did not reply. She had made a snap judgment. She let him have the last word. Feeling a tug on her gown, she hunkered down to Jake, so that their faces were level. The boy’s eyes weren’t as dark as his sister’s, but they were definitely more wary. Anger that Mace didn’t warn her was replaced by regret. She could easily have hurt these children by a wrong word, wrong move. Instinct was all she had to guide her. Offering her hand to Jake, Erin had to fight the urge to hug him. There was more than shyness at work here. She sensed it.
Jake glanced at his father, then at Becky. He touched his fingertips to Erin’s. “Pretty.”
“Thank you, Jake. And you’re very handsome.”
“Father?”
“What about him?” Erin asked, disconcerted to find that Becky’s watchful eyes were pinned on her.
“Jake wants to know if he’s as handsome as Papa.”
“Oh.” Erin smiled, buying herself a moment. What was she to say? A quick look over her shoulder showed Mace leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest, hip canted to the side, his eyes every bit as watchful as his daughter’s. She looked at the slender little boy, finding the strong resemblance to his father now that she was looking for it.
“Yes, you’re every bit as handsome as he is. But more important is the goodness you have here,” she said softly, barely touching his chest. “What’s in your heart is all that matters.”
Her cramped leg muscles protested as Erin forced herself to remain still. Jake came closer, his legs touching her knees, the barest hint of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He brushed his fingertips across her cheek, bending to touch the flour and bringing those whitened fingertips back to her face. He stared for a few seconds and Erin held her place, wondering if this were some Indian ritual.
“White. Soft.”
“Now you got her dirty, Jake. Say you’re sorry,” Becky demanded, reaching to brush the flour off Erin’s face.
“No, it’s all right, Becky. I’m not dirty and if I was, a little soap and water would get rid of it.” Erin rose to her feet awkwardly. “If you show me where you keep the broom, I can begin helping you by sweeping.”
If Erin had any doubts that these were indeed Mace Dalton’s children, she lost them. Becky faced her with her arms folded across her thin chest, hip canted out to one side. “Ain’t you gonna ask us what we were doing?”
A glance around the room told its tale, but Erin found herself turning to Mace for guidance. He was gone. The coward.
“We baked,” Jake said, tugging on the apron for her attention.
“That’s right. We wanted to surprise you with a cake so that you’d like us and want to stay.”
“Of course I want to stay, Becky. What ever gave you the idea that I wouldn’t?” Erin felt uncomfortable questioning the child, but again she let instinct guide her.
“None of the others wanted to stay.”
Given Mace’s temperament and the disgraceful state of the kitchen, Erin couldn’t blame any of the others, whoever they were. But she had married him, for better or for worse, and consoled herself with the thought that since the worse seemed behind her, perhaps it would get better.
“Becky, I’ll depend on you to show me where everything is kept. We’ll need a large pot to boil water.” Erin trailed her fingers over the top of the stove. Grease thick enough to stick to her fingertips covered the surface. “A very big pot, Becky. We’re going to need lots and lots of hot water.”
“Me?” Jake asked, once again tugging on the edge of the apron.
“Yes, you’ll help, too.” Erin tried the pump handle. She pushed and pushed down again. It wouldn’t move.
“Sticks sometimes,” Mace said, coming into the kitchen carrying her bags. “If you don’t have any more strength than a pile of goose feathers, woman, how do you expect to get anything clean?”
Erin tried the handle again, going up on the tips of her toes, putting every bit of strength she had into yet another push. It groaned in protest but moved halfway down before it stuck.
With a snort of disgust, Mace set down the bags and came to stand behind her. “Watch. I don’t want to show you twice.”
Erin relinquished her hold, but he caged her with one hand on the handle and the other on the edge of the dry sink. The handle didn’t dare groan when he pushed down. It didn’t even stick a bit—not then, not as Mace pumped a steady stream of water.
With his breath whispering across her cheek and neck, Erin fought to control the shiver that began inside her. She longed to ask him why he didn’t tell about his children, but didn’t dare. She was here on sufferance, Mace Dalton’s sufferance, and she must do nothing to provoke him.
But she couldn’t stop looking down at his hands, those same hands that had touched her with passion before the anger erupted.
“Since you’re pumping the water, Papa,” Becky said, coming to stand beside t
hem, “could you fill the pot?”
Startled, Erin tried to turn, only to find herself pressed up against Mace. The breadth of his shoulders was daunting. She refused to look at his face. With a pointed glance at the hand still barring her way, Erin waited until he lifted it so she could slip away from him
At the stove, she fitted the handle to the large, pancake-like burner, lifting it to see if the fire was still burning hot. The heat was the reason she drew shallow breaths, she told herself. It had nothing to do with being near Mace.
The wood box was almost empty of split wood, but even as she turned to ask where she could replenish it, Jake came inside carrying an armful.
Hearing her thank his son so politely, Mace turned to look at Erin. Her cheeks were flushed as she fed wood to the fire. He found himself envying the smile she gave to Jake.
“Will you carry the pot to the stove, Papa?” Becky asked, anxious to show Erin how much they all would help her.
“Sure, Becky. Then you’ll tell me what’s been going on while I’ve been gone.”
Erin had already turned away from the stove, and with Jake helping, began to sweep the floor. She listened to the murmur of Mace and Becky’s voices, heard that someone named Cosi was hunting a wolf that attacked the calves. There was more, but as she moved away from them, she couldn’t hear.
“I’d best see to Ketch,” Mace said, leaving them alone with a twinge of reluctance. He was sure she’d start questioning Becky and Jake the moment he was gone, but it would happen sooner or later anyway, so maybe it was best to get it out of the way now.
The second his back was through the door, Erin felt the tension seep out of her. Becky disappeared with one of the valises, but Jake dogged her heels as she swept up the flour and tested the heat of the water on the stove.
True to Mace’s belief, she did question the children when they were together again, but not as he had suspected. “We need to plan something for supper, Becky. You know what’s in the pantry, so I’ll depend on you to tell me what everyone likes to eat.”
Gifts of Love Page 9