Wildflower

by Lynda Bailey

  He slowly released her like he expected her to bolt then crossed his arms. “You can just take off, not when the snow’s still thick on the prairie. You know it’s not safe. And then there’s the question of money and the fact you don’t have any.”

  She stared at the ground, not responding.

  “If you agree to stay until after the cattle drive in June, I’ll give you a share of the stockyard sale. Wasn’t that the deal you made with Gene?”

  She looked up then. “Yes, but I don’t want to stay.”

  “I know you don’t want to, but it’s the smart thing to do.”

  “But—”

  His finger on her lips silenced any more words. The rough feel of his finger on her lips sent a waterfall of shivers down her spine. “You said you’d listen.” He tucked his arm back across his chest. “In addition, I promise to deliver you safely to wherever it is you want to go. I also need you to stay, Matt.”

  In spite of herself, joy flickered in her chest. “You need me to stay? Why?”

  “Because we’re still shorthanded and because…” Logan turned his gaze to the horizon with a heavy sigh. “Because rustling’s gotten bad. Real bad.” He looked at her again. “We’ve lost almost two dozen head in the past month alone.”

  “What?” Any joyful thought vanished. “Why the hell is this the first I’ve heard about it?”

  “It wasn’t my place to say. Roscoe’s the foreman. Or was. ‘Sides, with your pa so sick, you had enough on your mind. The rustlers are getting more aggressive, too. They’re going after medium-sized spreads and not just the small ones. I plan to move the herd to the east pasture this week.”

  “Thought we were wintering that pasture for the fall.”

  “We were, but it’s closer so the men spend less time riding to and from the herd for their shifts and more time guarding it.”

  She rubbed a gloved hand across her forehead. Why hadn’t she had the good sense to be born a boy? If she had, things might be different now. Maybe her father wouldn’t be dead. Maybe rustling wouldn’t be a threat. Maybe she wouldn’t be forced to marry someone who didn’t want her. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

  She shrugged off the mental despair. “I’m only one person. I can leave once the men are back in their saddles.”

  “You might be only one person, but no one knows these parts better than you. And you’re good with cattle, Matt. Damn good.”

  “Not as good as Roscoe and you let him go.” She shook her head again. “You don’t need me.”

  “Let me be the judge of what I need.”

  “Why is it so dang important that I stay?” The truth chilled her bones. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just what do you reckon is going to happen between us once we’re married?”

  A tense silence charged the great prairie as they stared at each other.

  “I won’t bed you,” she declared in a hushed voice. “Even if I stay, I won’t bed you.”

  Anger flared in his eyes right before he looked away. “I’m not asking you to.”

  A cut to her pride, but she refused to show it. “Good.” She turned again toward the cookhouse. “So long as that’s clear.”

  “It is. And you’ll stay until after the drive.”

  “I will. Now let’s go get this marriage thing done.”

  Head down against another cold slap of wind, she had to wonder if she hadn’t just made a deal with the devil.

  ~ ~ ~

  Lucifer was having a good, hard laugh at Logan’s expense. He was marrying Matt, but wouldn’t be able to touch her.

  Hell’s fire!

  Gene’s body wasn’t even cold, and the girl wanted to hightail it out of Indian Territory. Logan knew leaving was what she wanted, so it shouldn’t have surprised him. Yet it did.

  Or maybe it was his body’s reaction that surprised him.

  He hadn’t expected his blood to thump through his veins in anticipation of marrying her. Hadn’t expected buried need to swell his cock at the chance of claiming the woman he’d only allowed himself to dream about. A chance which would never be realized if she had anything to say about it.

  At least she was staying until after the drive. Three months. He didn’t hold much hope she’d change her mind, but it was possible. He laughed to himself. Right. Like lassoing the wind was possible.

  He didn’t know who was more stunned at the announcement he and Matt were marrying; the preacher, the old cook or the neighbors. Not that it mattered. The simple ceremony was over in a matter of minutes. No rings were exchanged because none were had. He made a mental note to buy her a band the next time he went to town.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” Wilson intoned. “You may kiss your bride.”

  Logan put his hand on Matt’s shoulder and angled her toward him. He hadn’t even held her hand during the hastily repeated vows. Cupping her cheek, he lowered his head. Wariness grew in her Kentucky clover eyes.

  He brushed the satiny skin of her cheek with his lips. A faint gasp escaped her. He repeated the caress on the other cheek. The bright anxiousness in her eyes locked onto his heart and squeezed. He was just about to settle his mouth against hers when the loud clanging of a dropped pot made her jump away.

  All eyes landed on Chuck who had the decency to cringe, if only a little bit. “Sorry, folks,” he apologized. “Handle slipped.”

  Chuck set about wiping up the spilled stew from the table as Logan turned to Matt, but she’d moved away. To pull her back and claim his kiss would have only focused more attention on them. He bit back a curse and stood silently by her side.

  No one wasted time in skedaddling from the cookhouse. Probably because they didn’t know what to say, sorry for the death of your father or congratulations on your marriage.

  The reverend and the neighbors headed home while Logan left Matt to help Chuck clean up and went to the bunkhouse to gather his gear.

  Grateful to see Roscoe had cleared out, he stuffed his two spare shirts and extra pair of Levi’s into his saddlebag, along with his shaving kit and the other paltry possessions he owned. After stopping by the barn to pick up his bedroll, he strode across the yard to the main house. He pushed open the door without knocking.

  Matt sat at the table, a bowl of stew in front of her. She vaulted to her feet, choking on a mouthful of food. “What are you doing here?”

  He dropped his saddlebag and bedroll onto the floor. “Moving in. What are you doing? Thought you were helping Chuck.”

  “He told me to git.” Her gaze followed him as he set his rifle in the corner by the door. “You can’t stay here.”

  His hackles rose at her bristly tone. “Where should I stay? In case you forgot, we’re married.”

  “And in case you forgot, I’m not bedding you.”

  “I remember.” Lord, did he. In angry moves, he peeled off his coat and hung it on a peg.

  “Then turn around and go back to the bunkhouse.”

  He inhaled a deep breath and fought to keep his tone even. “And say what to the men? We’re married. How would it look if I didn’t stay here?”

  Though crimson stained her cheeks, her mouth formed a mulish line. “You aren’t sleeping with me.”

  “Wasn’t planning to.”

  Her head reeled slightly, like his words surprised her. She sank back into her chair. “Oh.”

  He lifted the heavy lid from the stew pot hanging over the fire. “Reckon I’d sleep in Gene’s room when not at the herd.”

  “But all of Pa’s bedding was burned. Doc Bingham’s orders to keep the influenza from spreading. Even his tick mattress is gone.”

  Logan ladled stew into a bowl. “I’ll bring a mattress up from the bunkhouse.”

  “There aren’t any blankets.”

  “I’ve got my bedroll. Believe me, I’ve slept on worse.”

  Straddling the chair opposite her, he dug into the stew. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the food hit his tongue. Half the bowl was gone before he glanced up and saw Matt hadn’t touch
ed her remaining supper.

  She flicked her gaze from his and tucked her short hair behind her ear. The sign she was nervous. Never before had she been nervous around him. It didn’t set well. He didn’t want things between them to be awkward. Lordy, how could they not be awkward?

  He shoved his bowl away, the food he’d eaten turning bitter in his stomach. “Um, you understand that I’m not staying here just to be bullheaded. If the men suspect we’re not, uh, man and wife, things could get embarrassing for you.”

  Her green eyes connected ever so fleetingly with his before she stared at her bowl. Her shoulders stiffened. “I understand. You’re probably not even tempted to bed me.”

  Not tempted? Logan would be lucky if the only thing he felt was temptation. Still her defensive tone gave him pause. He leaned his elbows on the table. “Why would you say something like that?”

  She again tried to slip her hair behind her ear, not looking up. “Because I’m not pretty.”

  He opened his mouth to say she most certainly was pretty, but snapped it shut. If he counted her statement, he doubted she’d believe him. She’d just think he was trying to get on her good side. Silence knitted the air.

  The reality that Matt didn’t think she was pretty dawned like bright sunlight on a winter morning. To him, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Maybe not pretty in a helpless, frail sort of way. But pretty in a strong, independent way.

  He stood and placed his bowl in the wash bucket. Three months remained until the cattle drive to Abilene. Three months to convince his wife just how damn pretty she was. Beautiful, in fact. Maybe if he proved that fact to her, she wouldn’t leave.

  Big if. He picked up his gear. “I know your feelings about the marital bed.”

  “I won’t risk getting with child.”

  He nodded. “I said I know.”

  “I want to leave. Once the cattle drive is over, we can get an annulment. I read you can do that if the marriage hasn’t been consummated.”

  He rubbed a weary hand down his face. He needed a drink. He’d just married the woman of his dreams, but she didn’t want anything to do with him. He needed two drinks. Hell, the whole damn bottle.

  He headed for Gene’s room. Maybe he’d catch influenza and be dead by morning. That would be preferable to the hell of the coming three months.

  Chapter Three

  Matt tossed a forkful of hay into the stall. Her four-year-old gelding, Turk, pranced from the shower of straw with a whinnied protest. Pausing, she wiped sweat from her eyes. Indian Territory might still be in the throes of winter, but today was unseasonably warm. And mucking stalls didn’t help.

  The sound of approaching hooves drew her to the open barn doors. Logan reined his big roan, Sergeant, to a halt at the corral fence. Two other hands, Tom Johnson and Arch Newbuckle, followed behind. All three men dismounted.

  Her heart gave a funny flutter as Logan swung off Sergeant’s back. Her gaze latched onto his tight butt, emphasized by leather chaps. Heat flushed her cheeks. She shouldn’t gawk at him, but couldn’t help it.

  This was the first she’d seen him since their wedding night—two days ago. He’d been on guard duty both nights. Even though he was the ranch owner now, Logan still did his share of the work. If not more.

  She took a moment to study his features while he talked with Tom and Arch. Even from across the yard, she could see he looked more drawn, more tired, than a couple of nights riding saddle could cause. The rise in rustling came to mind. She wondered if they’d gotten the herd moved to the east pasture. Arch headed for the bunkhouse while Logan and Tom turned toward the barn, still in conversation.

  Watching Logan’s long-legged, loose-hip gait bring him closer, her fluttering heart bottomed out in her stomach in an explosion of tingles. Her husband would be sleeping in the main house tonight. Would he lay claim to his marital right?

  Her knees turned runny at the prospect. As much as she’d told Logan—and herself—that she didn’t want to be bedded, the most annoying sense of curiosity ate at her. Along with an unfamiliar heaviness in her limbs each time she remembered the silky feel of his lips on her cheeks. Add to that the memory of his naked body at the swimming hole from two years past and she was more curious than a cat around barbed wire.

  While she understood the mechanics of cattle and horse breeding, she couldn’t relate that biological act to what was supposed to happen between a man and his wife. How could something that big ever fit inside a woman anyway?

  Still, Matt realized having her curiosity satisfied would kill any hope of an annulment and, thus, any chance to escape Indian Territory. She wouldn’t take the risk, especially to satisfy some silly inquisitiveness.

  At that moment, Logan looked up and their gazes locked. For more than a few heartbeats, they stared at each other. He said something to Tom and handed him Sergeant’s reins. Tom kept walking toward the barn while Logan changed direction for the cookhouse.

  Angry heat scorched her face. Logan had seen her plain as day, then went in the opposite direction. Her question as to whether her husband intended to bed her was answered. Obviously he planned nothing of the kind.

  She spun on her heels and resumed her task, envisioning the pitchfork sinking into Logan’s hide instead of the haystack. If he didn’t find her appealing as a wife—or as a woman—fine by her. It would save her trouble in the future.

  She chucked a heap of straw over a stall wall as she heard spurs jangle. The light breeze kicked up to a gust and hay flew into her face. “Damnation!”

  “Tsk. Tsk,” Tom scolded from behind. “Such language.”

  She swiped hay from her eyes and glared at him as he led the horses to their stalls. His smirk further irritated her. Normally, she had no quarrel with the Missourian, other than he thought more of himself than anybody else, especially where women were concerned. He was always bragging about some poor girl whose heart he broke. With ears too big for his head, deep set eyes and a nose busted one too many times in bar brawls, she didn’t believe his boasting and never paid him much nevermind.

  But today wasn’t normal. Today she felt more wounded than a bear with its paw in a trap. “Leave me the hell alone,” she snapped. She turned back to her chore.

  Tom clucked his tongue. “Again with the bad language. Someone should teach you manners.”

  “And who’d teach me? You?”

  He chuckled. “I could. Ain’t like the job would be hard.”

  In no mood for any bad cowboy humor, she whirled to face him and took a step forward. The pitchfork pressed lightly into his gut. “I’d like to see you try.”

  Tom’s shit-eating grin vanished. He raised his hands in surrender with a step back. “No need to get worked up, Matt. I was just funnin’.”

  She advanced as he retreated, keeping a steady pressure on his middle. “Maybe I didn’t think it was funny.”

  His panicked gaze darted back and forth. Dark pleasure poured over her when he didn’t find an escape. It felt good to be in control of something. She thrust the pitchfork. Not hard. Just enough to get his attention.

  “Damn it, Matt!” he wailed. “I got the right to josh you.”

  “You got shit.”

  She pulled the pitchfork back, making as though to run him through. Tom stumbled backwards and his feet tangled. He plopped to the ground, square on a pile of horse dung.

  All sound died in the barn.

  Then she started to giggle. A small, chirp of a sound that grew into a laugh. A big, snorting belly laugh. The kind of laugh Matt couldn’t ever remember having. The pitchfork slipped from her grip as she braced herself on her knees.

  Maybe it was the sight of Tom Johnson, his butt planted in horse manure that made her laugh so hard. Or maybe it was the tension from the past month—her father’s death followed by her marriage to Logan—that had tears running down her face. She didn’t know and she truly didn’t care. It just felt good to feel something other than hopeless anger.

  Gasping
for breath, she straightened. “Now, that’s funny.”

  Tom got to his feet and swiped his butt. He lifted dung-covered fingers to her. “If you think that’s funny, wait until I smear this shit all over your face.”

  More laughter erupted. Arms stretched out defensively, she backed away. “Don’t do it, Tom Johnson. Don’t you dare do it. It’ll mean war.”

  Tom grinned wide. “Always wanted to be a soldier.”

  He feigned a move to her left and when she made a break to the right, he grabbed the back of her shirt. She laughed so hard, her breath caught in her chest. The manure lathered hand drew close.

  “No, Tom! No!”

  “Yes, Matt. Yes.”

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  She froze at the angry, commanding voice. So did Tom. Peering around the cowboy, she saw Logan standing at the barn entrance. Her smile withered.

  The dog-eared brim of his Stetson shadowed his face, yet there was no mistaking the hard line of his jaw. He angled his head toward Tom who fairly shoved her away. She stumbled then caught herself. Logan walked to Sergeant’s stall with measured steps, the swishing of his chaps blending with the loud jingle of his spurs. “I’ll ask again, what’s going on, Tom?”

  Tom went to wipe the manure on his Levi’s, then thought better of the idea. “We, uh. That is I...uh.”

  Matt had never seen the “Show Me” Missourian at a loss for words. In slow, methodical moves, Logan took off his coat, hung it on a hook then lifted a stirrup to loosen the cinch on his saddle. “Ride back to the herd, Tom.”

  “But I just came from the herd.”

  Logan paused in pulling the saddle off Sergeant. If a look could start a prairie fire, it was the look he gave Tom. Matt swallowed hard and picked up her pitchfork.

  Logan was angry, but about what? Her and Tom sharing a laugh? Why would that piss him off? She didn’t know. But the hairs itching along her neck warned her to be careful. She scooped the dung pile Tom fell on into the nearby wheelbarrow.

  Logan hefted his saddle over a stall divider. “I said to ride back. Take one of the draft horses to give yours a rest.”

  Tom mumbled something and Logan stalked out of Sergeant’s stall. “What was that, Tom?” The edge of his voice sliced like a Bowie knife.