His Make-Believe Bride

by Martha Hix

  “No, actually, I grew up in town.”

  He nodded, impressed that for once her statement matched her letters.

  “My family died when I was nine,” she said. “My parents were town people. I spent the rest of my girlish years in an orphanage. I—”

  “That’s flat-out sad.”

  “Lonesome, not sad,” she corrected. “But I did learn to read, write, and do sums. And I learned to work a garden. It’s obvious the latter will come in handy here on the High Hopes.”

  “That’s odd. You never mentioned an orphanage.”

  She leaned down to take hold of a sturdy twig. Poking a dead bush, she admitted, “I didn’t mention a number of things. Please don’t hold that against me.”

  “Any of it worse than your being a widow woman?”

  A long moment passed before she replied, “There’s little worse than being a widow.”

  Satisfied that he had gotten himself an honest woman, he reached for her free hand to squeeze it tenderly. “I’m sorry about the orphanage, honey girl—oops! I didn’t mean to call you a sweetie.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, you! It’s all in the way it’s said. Today . . .” Her blush deepened, but not to the point where she couldn’t give a saucy little wink of her chestnut-colored eyelashes. Standing, she smiled. “I like the way it sounds . . . today.”

  Samson Kincaid wasn’t particularly a religious man, despite having occasionally acquainted his backside with the Heaven’s Gate wooden pews, but in that moment, he gazed skyward and said a silent prayer for blessings received.

  * * *

  Leaving the cotton patch and heading for home, Linnea realized Sam had begun to tug at her heartstrings. The man’s pride, it seemed, wouldn’t allow him to come right out and apologize to her, but . . . In a way, she found his behavior sweet, even endearing. His attitude was one she viewed as quite manly. He was manly all right, she remembered from last night in the bed and again that morning. Was he ever manly!

  She stole a glance at her husband as they strode through the field. He made a simple muslin shirt look wonderful, as well as those suspenders that held up his denim britches. I have been given a chance at a new and good start, even though it wasn’t the one I was expecting. I could certainly do worse. I have done worse! Jewel’s wrong. I am the luckiest woman in Lubbock County. Or could be.

  As they neared their door, he captured her hand and squeezed lightly. And he leaned in to plant his hand at her waist, tugging her to him. Only a twit would be innocent enough to imagine that his thoughts weren’t on the marriage bed.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she heard him say when the Cluck family came into view, circling the soddy’s front yard, looking for their own dinner. “Can we be friends?”

  “I don’t want to kill those hens.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t name the babies. I reckon it’s easier that way. Or we could live on eggs and watch the henhouse take over the main house,” he added with a really nice laugh. “Don’t you dare tell anyone uptown—and especially not my uncle, or my cousin, or the sheriff!—that I’ve gone soft on livestock! Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Without giving herself a chance to think on the matter any further, lest she be tempted to back down from her new resolve, she let go of his hand and spun to face him.

  “Samson . . . Sam . . . Husband . . .” She met his gaze. “Have you been trying to say . . . ? What . . . ? Are you saying you want me for your bride?”

  Chapter 8

  In response to her brazen question Linnea now feared her boldness might upset him anew, for Sam uttered not a single word. But he twined his fingers with hers, hurrying along, making straight for home. His hip nudged hers. More than once. Only the silliest of schoolgirls would be innocent enough to imagine his thoughts were simply of reaching home.

  When she might have stumbled into some animal’s underground home, he grabbed her elbow and pulled her to safety. Then he stopped, turned to her.

  “Linnea . . . Linnea . . .” He guided their melded fingers to his spine. Looking straight into her eyes, he said, “About last night . . . I’m . . . I handled it all wrong. I regret how I acted.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, unable to say more, but so glad, so relieved . . . This marriage stands a chance.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

  “Me, too. I’m sorry for deceiving you.”

  “Let’s say no more. Wait. No, not yet.” Sam halted short of their home. “I’d love to give you the life and family you’ve dreamed of. If you will promise never to think about that dead husband when you’re in our bed, I’m willing to overlook the fact he happened at all.”

  She could have jumped for joy. Taking the biggest gamble of her life, she let go . . . accepting the course that fate would take her on. “That, I am most willing to do.”

  He grabbed her into a sensuous hug that gave proof of his desire. He cocked his head as if to kiss her, but stopped. “Unless you wanna put on a show for the birds and the chickens, I suggest we hotfoot it to the house.”

  As they reached the soddy’s door, he swooped her into his arms, carrying her over the threshold, and then set her to her feet at the bed, never letting go of her hand. As he pulled back the blanket, she glanced at their clasped hands, loving the feel of his rough fingers against the smoothness of hers.

  “Linnea,” he said then, his usual baritone now lowered to a ragged whisper as he smiled and again captured her gaze. “May I undress you? Allow me to remember this . . . please.”

  “Please do,” she replied, unable to say anything more. She’d been holding her breath, yet hadn’t realized it until this moment.

  Only then did Sam release her hand. He brushed his knuckles gently down her cheek, the column of her neck, the side of her breast and her waist . . . and then slowly went to work. He knelt and began with her shoes, then his own.

  “Pretty, so lovely,” he murmured as he undid her blouse and skirt, and leaned to kiss the rise of her bosom. “I intend to kiss each of your freckles,” he whispered, her knees going very, very weak.

  Linnea felt not a shred of embarrassment . . . and abruptly she realized why. Her husband’s hot gaze and even hotter touch radiated throughout everything within her. Time seemed to stand still as she cherished the moment.

  Wanting to give as she received, she tried to play with the lobes of his ears. “Now? You would kiss each freckle, now?”

  “Yeah, oh yeah . . . Each and every one . . . before it’s over.”

  Oh, how she loved the ring of that, for she read “forever” attached to it.

  “Now, wife, about those freckles . . .”

  * * *

  Up to now—the Friday morning after the onset of wedded bliss—neither Linnea nor Jewel had discussed anything personal. Instead, they worked the vegetable patch as if they were hired hands. Today, with the men herding several head of cattle to a drover who would transport them to a packing house in Fort Worth, Linnea stopped spreading squash seeds in the soon-to-be vegetable garden.

  It wasn’t the garden that troubled Linnea. Mornings spent with her aunt of sorts were pleasant enough, when Jewel wasn’t riding in the Mrs. Know Everything wagon. Well, she always had herself in the driver’s seat of that one.

  What troubled Linnea, truth to tell, was that she had begun to admire the woman. Jewel had the true pioneer spirit, attacking every task with vim and vigor. Her greatest goal was to please her man, and if she were to acquire a piano along the way, she would sing to her adoring little puppy dog, Charlie Craig.

  How nice it would be, starting married life without secrets.

  Starting on a new hole for the next squash seeds, Linnea said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . I do appreciate your coming to my defense. You know, on Sunday, when I made that remark about returning the surreys.”

  The very capable Mrs. Craig stretched to her full height and propped her crossed wrists on the apex of a weathered hoe, a lookalike to the one Linnea how
used—the one Sam had produced from the dugout where tack and equipment were stored.

  “It’s not to my benefit for you to quit on this place and our deal,” Jewel said.

  “Our deal? I don’t intend to renege on the brooch. It belongs to you, no matter what happens between Sam and me.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.” Again, Jewel set to tidying up the rows of planted squash. “Do you reckon you’ll stay put when the coach rolls through Lubbock tomorrow?”

  “Things are still sort of . . .”

  “Still sort of? Don’t be namby-pamby. It’s to all our benefit, you getting your noggin to where the four of us can stick to our common goal. We all must work this place, to get it where it’s profitable.”

  “I’m doing my part.”

  “All of it?” Jewel lifted a brow. “Could it be that you haven’t, well, done your wifely deed and let your husband”—she cleared her throat—“let him sample your wares yet?”

  Sample the wares? He’d more than done that. After the wildness of erotic completion that left Linnea more than breathless, more than satisfied, yet eager for the next wedded prerogative, she’d learned that lovemaking the second time around beat the first. By a lot. Sam had, indeed, before morning light, tasted each of her freckles . . . and much, much more!

  “Aw, now, Linnea girl. Stop blushing.”

  “You’re blushing, too.”

  “I was a virgin.”

  Good for you, Linnea managed not to say aloud.

  “Well?” Jewel gave another toothy smile. “I’m waiting.”

  “No, that’s not it. I’m truly his wife now, as of Sunday.”

  “I figure you haven’t told my nephew your real name, since Charlie hasn’t said anything of it, and the only dust blowing around here is in the West Texas wind. Now is the time for you to be honest with that man. Get to it, missy girl!”

  “I need to think it through before I take that awful chance. I need to work up my courage.”

  “Linnea . . . you better find that courage and find it quickly.”

  “I’m just trying to make myself so useful that he’d have a lot to lose, should he turn me out. I need time to prove myself. I’m trying to be a good wife—where he will want me, where he wouldn’t dream of sending me away. That’s where I need your help, Jewel. I want to learn to cook.”

  “What about sewing?”

  “That, too.” Linnea swallowed. “Teach me how to be a good wife. Please! I don’t have money to pay you. Do you think you might be interested in simply doing me a favor?”

  “I could teach you all sorts of domestic tricks, if I had a mind to,” Jewel said. “You are now my niece, but even if you weren’t, I am concerned about you. But I’m not going to teach you to be a homemaker, not when you might end up in Clovis. You get it in your head to stick around here—and tell Sam the truth. Then you and I will talk.”

  Suddenly, the morning seemed quite hot. Rubbing her brow with the back of a hand, Linnea said, “I would love to stay here, being Sam’s wife forever and ever. If only bygones could be bygones.”

  “What makes you think he won’t forgive and forget?”

  “He was very unhappy to learn I’d already had a husband.”

  “He got over it. Obviously.”

  Was there hope? Linnea could only dare to believe so. “I—I can’t do it. I just can’t take a chance. I don’t want to lose him, not now, not ever!”

  “Tell him. Tell him today. Or tonight. It is the only honorable thing to do.”

  “You’re right. I must. I will. Tonight.”

  * * *

  Sam and Charlie finished early with the cattle that day, then bathed in a trickling spring near the herd, thereafter dressing in clothes they had stored in their saddlebags. Sam was in a hurry to get back to the home place. He had a big surprise for his beautiful bride and it didn’t even have anything to do with his plans to show her a trick he’d learned from a painted lady in New Orleans.

  “I’m going into town,” he told his uncle. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to look into.”

  “What’s that?”

  After Sam’s answer, Charlie said, “You sure you wanna go that far? You and I may have been born in these United States, but we’re Scotsmen at heart. What you’re planning? Why, it’s unthinkable, going to that length. Besides . . . I never figured you’d give up something like that.”

  “Gotta do it, Charlie. Have to do it.”

  * * *

  Where was he?

  Earlier that day, Sam announced that he and Charlie would be in early. Now she wondered what constituted “early.” The mantel clock read four o’clock. Already nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs over her promise to admit everything, Linnea couldn’t just sit.

  Even though Sam, every evening so far, had put together leftovers from Jewel’s lunch, Linnea decided to busy her hands with food preparation. The second time she burned leftover biscuits, she gave up.

  “We can eat scrambled eggs,” she told Henny, who had flown in through the open window, as she had every day since Linnea’s arrival. “Sure will be glad when Jewel starts the cooking lessons.”

  Fussing, Henny raised a wing, circling the table. “Clawwwk, clawk, clawk, clawk, clawwwk.”

  Strange beings, chickens. Linnea had never had a pet, never dreamed chickens had personalities. She had learned a lot already, out on the range. One thing? Country people were just different from town folks. They weren’t sentimental about livestock or fowl.

  About a half hour after that, the mantel clock struck six. “Something awful must have happened.”

  Henny didn’t bother with another answer. She pecked at crumbs of burnt biscuits that had fallen to the floor, but spat them out.

  “You, girl, need to scat.” Linnea shooed the hen out with the help of a broom.

  Not ten minutes later, she heard his voice as he neared their front door. She wilted with relief. Then it hit her. Sam didn’t talk to himself. He must have someone with him. Probably Charlie.

  However it was not Charlie.

  “Linnea, honey, this here is Westford Alington, the sheriff of Lubbock County.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” He spoke slowly, his voice deep. He took her hand as if to shake it, but simply squeezed lightly, patted her knuckles with his other hand, then let go his hold. “Welcome to West Texas.”

  Trying to gather her senses, Linnea nodded.

  Sam cocked a thumb at the bantam rooster of a Texan. “Most folks call him sir, but you and I can use Wes.”

  This dark-complected lawman stood beside her tall, tall husband, wearing a black shirt, black britches, and a vest cut from polished leather, black. A pair of pearl-handled six-guns rode on his hips. A striking man, rugged and giving off an aura of quiet strength, Alington wore a white hat and a big silver star.

  Her husband had spoken of him, always with high praise, not that she could remember any of it. Linnea’s first impression? He emitted strength, despite his small stature. Was he here to arrest her for assuming a false identity?

  She looked searchingly at Sam; he took her hand and patted Wes’s back at the same time. “Now, honey, don’t look like you’ve seen a ghost! He doesn’t know anything about your many crimes!”

  Sam laughed. Alington tipped his chin and looked straight into her eyes. Linnea felt faint.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “You . . . you caught me by surprise. Pleased to meet you, Sheriff. I’ve just got . . . sort of had . . . I guess I’m . . . dyspeptic.”

  “Didn’t mean to give you a bellyache.”

  She somehow managed a smile, then hastened to offer chairs and hot tea.

  When all three sipped the refreshment, Sam said, “Go on, Wes. Tell her. She wants to know about the best flowers to grow here on the plains.”

  Flowers? Now I remember. He’s the “studious thinker” who knows botany.

  He said, “Lubbock ladies hankered for flowers, like roses and ho
neysuckle. A few had the cockeyed idea to grow bougainvillea and azaleas.”

  Sam refilled the teacups. “Didn’t your mother bring gardenias from West Columbia, when you moved from there?”

  Alington nodded. “A waste of time.”

  Linnea asked, “Some plants take to this climate, don’t they?”

  “Some.”

  “What piqued your interest to start with?” she asked.

  “Folks figured I knew botany because I like to read.”

  “Honey, he’s read the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”

  “Where in the world did a sheriff get the money to buy—oh, sorry. That’s none of my business.” Embarrassed for mentioning money, Linnea blushed. Miz Myrtie had told her never to bring up the subject—it wasn’t socially acceptable. And never assume, my dear Linnea, that someone is of a lesser class, just from the way he or she dresses, or what he does for a living.

  “No problem, Miz Linnea.”

  “His father was the preacher at Heaven’s Gate,” Sam put in. “Brother Inman took over after Brother Ted passed on last year.”

  With a nod of agreement, the sheriff continued. “As a boy I tidied roads and yards to help out. Ladies got to where they asked my advice on how to pretty up their yards. I told them, ‘Move to South Texas.’”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You lost me there.”

  “When the Alingtons lived near the Gulf of Mexico, his mother studied with Mrs. Carrie A. Nation,” Sam supplied. “One of the temperance ladies.”

  The sheriff said, “West Columbia is an altogether different place from here. The coastal plains are more like the Deep South. Texas is a big state. Different climates in all five directions, plus the hills north of San Antonio.”

  “After my long stagecoach ride, I totally agree with ‘different climates. ’ Do go on, sir.”

  “Wes. Just call me Wes.”

  “As you wish, Wes. How did you figure out what does like this climate?”

  “Just studied on what grows native. There’s plenty of that. Ask me what to plant? I say you can’t go wrong with Texas primrose and red yucca. Butterflies love lantana. And milkweed.”