by Sharon Ihle
"I—I lost my pins while chasing the chickens earlier, and do not have anything else to hold my hair in place. I'm afraid it does get a wee bit unruly if there be the slightest dampness in the air."
"It's out of the way now," he assured her, aware of the hint of panic in her tone. There were still a few maverick strands left to tickle his nose, his senses, and most disturbing of all, something deep inside of him, but Hawke tried to ignore those sensations, and again reached across her shoulders. "Go ahead, take a teat in each hand and get a firm grip on them."
His warm breath caressed Lacey's ear, and even though Hawke wasn't really holding her, he did have his arms around her. Close enough, she thought, to preserve the moment as her very first embrace from a gentleman. The idea sent a little shiver up her spine; and Lacey had to bite her lip to keep from giggling over the strange sensations this man's touch ignited in her
Hawke felt the tremor pass through her body. "Are you still afraid of Hazel?" he asked, concerned.
"Oh, goodness—no." Forcing herself to concentrate on the task again, Lacey tentatively reached out to touch the cow's udder. When her fingers made contact, she lost the battle with her giggles. "May the saints forgive me for my silliness, Mr. Hawke, but 'tis a very odd and strange thing you're asking of me."
"I'm just plain Hawke. Now watch what I do." Still trying to ignore her hair and its fresh, floral scent, an aroma which reminded him of the first cherry blossoms of spring, his long arms reached beyond her delicate shoulders to Hazel's udder. To make contact with the cow, Hawke had to press his chest against Lacey's back. Never had he been in such close proximity to a white woman, especially one who didn't object, and the effect was as disturbing as it was pleasurable.
Working quickly to avoid any misunderstandings, he filled each of his palms with a swollen teat, then demonstrated the correct motion by squirting several streams of milk into the bucket in rapid succession. Lacey squealed with delight, turned her head to the side as if to speak, and damn near brushed her mouth across his. Halfway expecting her to scream or at the least, accuse him of making improper advances, Hawke immediately turned loose of the cow and leaned back.
"Now you try it," he said gruffly, wondering why in the hell he'd agreed to play out the little charade of "testing" a wife in the first place.
Aware that Hawke was irritated, and assuming that she'd done something to upset him—again—Lacey fought her runaway nerves. Trying mightily to ignore the squishy, squeamish sensations which accompanied the feel of the cow's udder beneath her fingertips, she grasped the teats and pulled. Nothing came out. A pout in her tone, she said, "Tisn't working for me the way it does for you. I'm no good at this."
Again leaning over her shoulder, this time careful not to touch any part of her body with his, Hawke studied the position of Lacey's hands. "You're tugging on her instead of squeezing. Push your fists against Hazel's udder, then start a gentle up and down movement. And make sure you alternate your hands while you squeeze." He watched as Lacey positioned herself again, then added, "You have to squeeze hard—pretend you're trying to get eggs out of my chickens."
More relaxed now since the humorous reference to her earlier misdeeds made her feel somehow pardoned for the last, Lacey made a determined effort to accomplish her task. This time she was rewarded with a thin stream of milk.
"I did it!" she cried, enormously pleased with herself. "'Tis like rain from the heavens, and I brought it about by myself!"
"What you've started is more of a light shower." Hawke chuckled softly. "See if you can't squeeze hard enough to get a thunderstorm underway, or we'll be here till nightfall." And that wouldn't have been a very good idea; he decided, given his sudden and surprising state of excitement.
Every time Hazel swished her tail or stamped a foot, which was frequently; a startled Lacey leaned back against him, bringing her soft body into contact with his and her heavenly scented hair flush against his nose. It wouldn't be a very good idea, to just get up and leave her there, not while she was still so tentative and uncertain of herself. And yet if he was forced to stay in this position with his hips so close to her bottom—a curvy little backside in constant rotation as she wriggled back and forth on the stool while she went about her task—he didn't know how much longer he could keep his hands off of her. And as a half-breed, Hawke knew his status well enough to understand that could never happen, even if the Irishwoman had let on that she'd consider marrying him. For reasons he hadn't figured out yet, something wasn't quite on the up and up with Miss Lacey O'Carroll. Before the week was out, he intended to find out exactly what it was.
Dark as those thoughts were the spark she'd set off in him flared instead of dying out as she worked, and Hawke finally had no choice but to abruptly stand and turn his back to her. "You can finish here by yourself," he snapped. "When the pair of teats you're working on go dry, switch to the other set until they re empty, too. I've got to go cheek on my mares." Then he stalked off down the aisle.
Surprised by Hawke's curt departure, Lacey paused to wipe a few beads of perspiration from her brow with the edge of her sleeve. She didn't know what the devil she'd done wrong this time, but the man seemed gruffer now than he was when he found her squeezing his rooster. More surly even than he'd been when he found out she was the mail-order bride he hadn't ordered. Why had he turned on her now? She was getting the required bucket of milk from Hazel—what more could he possibly expect?
Muttering to herself over the man's unpredictable nature, Lacey went back to milking the cow. Her poor hands ached so much by the time the first set of teats were dry, she didn't know how she would find the strength to empty the other pair, but somehow, she carried on. Just as exhaustion overtook her and she could squeeze no more, Lacey thought she glimpsed something moving across the aisle. Happy to release Hazel, she glanced toward the section of the barn featuring a couple of large, closet-like rooms containing all manner of ranch equipment and fodder. As she peered into the murky interior of the one which held several bins filled with aromatic grains and hay, something small and dark bolted around the corner and disappeared. She blinked and looked again. Now all was still. Had her mind begun playing tricks on her again?
To calm her suddenly racing pulse, Lacey tried to convince herself that if indeed she'd really seen a creature, it was nothing but a large cat—or something of that nature. But as she went back to milking Hazel, she could almost feel a pair of eyes on her. Disturbingly human eyes. Vaguely distressed by the fact that the sensation wouldn't go away, when at last the cow was drained, Lacey dragged the full bucket out of the stall, and quickly went in search of Hawke. She found him checking the feet of a pale yellow mare in one of the three stalls he'd forbidden her to disturb.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hawke," she said in a small, worried voice, "but I'm finished with Hazel. The bucket's full up with milk, too."
"Like I said before, the name's just plain Hawke." In better spirits now, he lowered Taffy's clean hoof and let himself out of her large, airy foaling stall. As he latched the tightly fitted door, he turned to Lacey and asked, "Do you like horses?"
"I can not say, that I remember."
"You don't remember? How can you forget whether you do or don't like horses?"
"W-what I meant to say—" She stumbled around in her mind searching for a plausible explanation for the automatic answer. Lacey had considered mentioning the "shadow" or whatever it was she'd seen near the feed room, but after this blunder, she was afraid if she did, Hawke might get the idea that she was at least a wee bit fey. And, of course, she was. "I 'spose what I meant was that I can not remember ever being around them."
Apparently 'satisfied by her answer, Hawke shrugged and collected both the bucket of milk and the basket of eggs. Then he started for the house, calling to her from over his shoulder. "Let's go eat. I'm starved."
Lacey followed behind him until they stepped out of the barn and into the sunlight where she got her first good look at the grounds. The wide Wyoming skies were a p
ale silvery blue with just enough tendrils of fog still hanging in the valleys to remind her of the mists in Ireland.
"Oh, 'tis a fine soft morning," she murmured, her voice steeped in awe. "And such big, beautiful mountains you have here, too!"
Turning back to her, Hawke followed Lacey's gaze to the highest range of snowcapped peaks. "The big one, Medicine Bow Mountain, is over twelve thousand feet high. We're at about eight thousand."
The measurements didn't mean much to Lacey, but she knew there was nothing in Ireland which could compare. The homeland, what she knew of it anyway, was a pastoral country of uneven surfaces and mountainous terrain she knew that even the highest point; Carrauntoohill, was less than half the altitude at which she was standing now!
Revolving in place, she took a further look around the front of the property. Due east; a high fence surrounded a small corral containing only one horse, but just to the south of it and across the road, along stretch of lush meadow with a sparkling creek running through it played host to several mares and their young foals. To the north, a much larger fence enclosed acres of pasture land with horses scattered along the sage-dotted mountaintop. Behind the log home, which looked far more impressive on the outside than its stark interior had, Lacey noticed a smaller building, also made of logs, along with the barn and a few sheds. Back Of all that and lining the south side of the ranch, was a thick forest of dark green lodgepole pines set off by random swirls of lime colored aspens.
"Winterhawke" would be a fine place in which to live, she thought with anticipation. It was big, beautiful, and best of all, isolated from the rest of the world and its intolerance for those a little "different." Aye, she dared to dream; she could be very, very happy here—assuming, of course, that she could convince its owner to marry her. And, Lacey suddenly realized, she couldn't do that standing here gawking at his property. He'd gone into the house.
Hurrying along after him, Lacey caught up with, Hawke in the kitchen where he'd set the milk and eggs on the rubbed pine counter near the stove. He was sitting at the table near the window writing something down in a long, narrow book.
Without looking up from his work, Hawk said, "I started the sausage. I'd like you to make some biscuits and gravy to go with it. Maybe a couple of fried eggs, too."
Lacey didn't have the first idea how to go about cooking the sausage much less whipping up gravy, but this morning, she figured she had enough of an excuse to duck the chore without revealing that wee truth. Demonstrating with only her left hand, she held it out and tried to make a fist. "I'd like to be helping you with your meal, but I'm afraid your Hazel has give me finger cramps. I do not think I can even lift the skillet, my fingers ache so."
Hawke glanced over at her and had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that tending the cow could be hard on the hands, especially during those frosty mornings when the fingers were stiff to begin with. He sighed. "I guess milking does take a little getting used to. I'll cook today, but you can make breakfast tomorrow—if you plan on coming back, that is."
She raised a determined chin. "I am."
"In that case, I'll put in my order now. I'd like some biscuits, and I mean good fluffy biscuits that don't take a saw to cut into. They're something I've never had much luck with. How about you?"
"Me?" And though she had no clue as to how to go about creating the fluffy biscuits he craved, she said, "Why, goodness sakes. I've the luck of the Irish in my corner. Of course, I can make them—as long as I do not have to milk Hazel first."
"I'll take care of the milk and eggs tomorrow." Then, before he fired up the stove and got to work, Hawke added another notation under the Disadvantages column in his ledger:
Too weak and frail to be a ranch wife.
* * *
The following morning when Lacey stepped into Hawke's kitchen to begin dazzling him with her culinary talents, she came prepared. After spending half the evening with Kate working on ways to convince a "reluctant groom" that she could cook, Lacey watched as Kate made up a nice batch of fluffy biscuits. When they were done and cooled, the women wrapped them in paper, then tucked them in a basket along with a few "personal items" such as toweling, an apron, and a couple of cleaning rags. With the biscuits hidden and disguised this way, all Lacey need do this morning was warm them up a bit in the oven, smear a little flour and milk around in a bowl to make it look as if she'd mixed them up herself, and then serve breakfast.
Proud of the plan and the ease with which she'd carried it out so far, she sliced a couple of slabs off the big ham Hawke had set out, warmed the meat in the oven along with the biscuits, then set the pan containing the entire meal on top of the stove near the burner. Recalling Kate's final instruction—to put a nice cloth over the baked goods to keep them warm and moist like fresh biscuits would be—she covered the pan, then dusted her hands and apron with flour. Pleased with that extra bit of authenticity, she started for the barn to tell Hawke that it was time to come in.
As she reached the wide doorway, Lacey called out to him. "Your breakfast is ready—Hawke."
The familiarity implied by addressing him so felt odd, yet good at the same time. Humming to herself in anticipation of his reaction when he tasted "her" biscuits, Lacey listened for Hawke's deep baritone. All she heard was something that sounded like chickens scrambling around in the straw—that and perhaps, muffled voices. Recalling the "eyes" she'd felt on her yesterday and the twinge of fear the memory brought with it, she stayed at the fringes of the door and repeated his name a little louder. "Hawke? Are you in there?"
"In Taffy's stall!"
Relieved to finally hear his voice, Lacey hurried inside the building. After her eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting, she marched straight down the aisle to the correct stall and peered over the door. Both of Hawke's hands were pressed against the horse's swollen belly, and his brow was creased with worry.
"Our meal is cooked," she said quietly. "Are you ready to eat?"
He straightened up and ran his hand along the mare's spine. "Something isn't quite right with Taffy this morning."
Lacey stood on tiptoe and draped her arms over the stall door. The mare's coat looked damp and kind of rippled all over. Chuckling softly, she said, "I see her hairs go all frizzy like mine. Is it because of the dampness in the air?"
"No, I think she's getting ready to drop her foal."
Lacey cried out with delight. "Those curly hairs are cause for rejoicing, then, are they no?"
Again placing his hands against the mare's belly, Hawke slowly shook his head. "Not with her they aren't. She's the sneaky kind who always foals in the dead of night—at least, that's what she's done the last three times. I think she wants me around for this one, and I can only guess that it's because she's in trouble."
"Trouble? In what way?"
He shrugged. "Could be a lot of things. I can't even be sure there is a problem yet."
"Then shall we go eat our meal? 'Tis ready you know, and when we come back, perhaps your Taffy will be up to telling us what her problem is."
"I'm not going anywhere until I know what's wrong with this horse." Hawke moved to the mare's head and rubbed his palm down the length of the white blaze running from her forelock to her nose. "Taffy's not only my best brood mare, but the first to drop a foal by my new stallion. I'm not taking any chances with her. You go ahead and eat. I'll get mine later."
"Before you leave," he said, cutting her off. "Would you mind stepping into the harness room and getting me a couple of blankets?"
"No, a course not." Not only did she not mind, Lacey had no intention of leaving until she'd figured out a way to stay in the barn to witness an event she'd only heard about; birth. "Where might I find this harness room?"
"It's the first door on the right about midway into the barn. The walls are full of reins and gear hanging from wooden pegs. You can't miss it."
Her mind completely absorbed by the exciting miracle about to occur, Lacey found the correct doorway, stepped inside the room, and spotted the pil
e of blankets immediately. After helping herself to one, she spun around, hurried out the door—and froze in her tracks.
The dark shadow she'd glimpsed yesterday was straight in front of her. Today, it had a distinct shape, revealing that it definitely was not a cat. In fact, the figure hesitated a moment before darting away, giving her an even better view of it. Her heart in her throat, it took Lacey a minute to convince her legs to move again, but when they did, they carried her pell-mell down the aisle toward Taffy's stall.
"Mr. Hawke!" she screamed, recognizing the shadow for what it must be. "Mr. Hawke, come quick! 'Tis one of the wee people, a fairy come to bring bad luck your way!"
The banshee only follows families whose names begin with an 'O' or a 'Mac.'
—A common Irish saying
Chapter 5
It took Hawke a full fifteen minutes to convince Lacey that due to the variety of windows inside the barn and the yawning gap created by the open double doors, what she'd seen was really nothing but a shadowy illusion. When she finally quit parrying his explanations with more questions, he assumed she'd accepted his rationalizations, even though he hadn't stopped looking over her shoulder with each step she took.
In truth, it wasn't until they walked back to Taffy's stall and found the mare thrashing about in the straw, that Lacey turned loose of her fairy theory and forgot about what she thought she'd seen. The birth must be imminent! From that moment on, all she could concentrate on was the horse.
"Damn," Hawke muttered when he saw his mare struggle to her feet, then throw herself down in the straw on her other side. "This isn't right. Go back to the house," he barked at Lacey. "Get out of here."
"Oh, but I wish to stay, if I might. I've ne'er—"
"I'm serious, damn it all." His features grim, Hawke stomped over to the door. Lacey shrank away from him as he reached around to the outside of the stall and took Taffy's halter from the hook driven into the post there. "I have to examine the horse now, and—well, things could get really messy after that. You'd better go on inside."