Reluctant Brides Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  Lunch consisted of warmed-up stew and leftover biscuits from breakfast. Angie set them on the back of the stove as Saundra and Judy set off for the chicken coop with a basket.

  The moment they stepped off the porch, Angie was at the cellar door. “Lane? Did you find anything?” She skittered down the stairs.

  Lane stood beside a pile of stones, dirt scattered across the floor. At his feet lay a small hole.

  “I spent an hour getting the stones loose,” he said. “It’s taking longer than I thought.” He propped the shovel under his forearm.

  She stepped closer. “Saundra and Judy went to fetch the eggs so I have a few minutes.”

  He picked up the shovel, thrust it into the dirt, and stepped on it with a heavy work boot. When he lifted it, a sagging bundle hung off the side of the mound of dirt.

  “What’s that?” Angie cried, lunging forward. She grasped the bundle and pulled it free. “It’s heavy!” The sack fell to the earth with a distinct thud, too weighty for her to hold up.

  Angie fell to her knees, forgetting all thoughts of keeping her skirts clean. Lane squatted beside her. They tugged at the leather bag and finally got it open.

  Chapter 18

  Moving to a clear spot of floor, Lane turned the sack over and shook it. Dirty black lumps fell out.

  “It’s not gold,” Angie said, deflated. “What is it?”

  Lane pulled a small sheath from his pocket and drew out a knife. He picked up a lump and cut into it. Standing, he held it up to the lantern.

  Angie gasped. A yellow sheen glistened in the light. “It is gold!” She grabbed Lane’s arm. “Lane! The ranch! You can pay for the ranch!”

  Still holding the nugget up, he turned his face toward her, meeting her gaze. Suddenly suspended in time, Angie forgot to breathe. She still had hold of his arm, but she forgot to let go. She saw the small creases beside his eyes from long years in the sun, his long, thin nose, his sensitive mouth that had turned down into a deep frown for so long. Too long.

  His face came closer until she could almost feel his breath.

  “Angie?” Judy’s voice came from the kitchen above.

  Gasping, Angie grabbed a jar of pears and headed for the stairs. She almost forgot to raise her skirts and did a little two-step at the bottom riser. Somehow she made it to the top and grabbed the latch. She stopped an instant to wet her lips and swallow.

  Stepping into the kitchen, she tried to force her voice to a normal level. “Here I am,” she said.

  Saundra stood by the coatrack, smoothing her hair over her ears where one strand had sprung free. “Oh, pears will taste good for lunch,” she said. “I think it’s almost time to call in the men.”

  “Let’s set the table, Judy,” Angie said. “Then we’ll call them.”

  Angie kept her face turned away from Saundra, afraid that the other woman would notice her warm cheeks and shaking hands.

  “I’m going upstairs for a minute,” Saundra said, still fussing with her hair. “I’ve got to find a hairpin.”

  Angie waited to hear her shoes on the stairs before she moved three steps down the cellar stairs. “Saundra’s going upstairs. Now’s your chance to come up.”

  Below her, Lane shoved the dirty sack under a shelf and reached for the lantern. He dusted his pants as he moved.

  “What did you find, Daddy?” Judy asked when he reached the kitchen.

  He set down the lantern and moved to the hand-washing stand by the door. “We’ll take about it later, chicky,” he told her. His voice had a not-now tone that held back Judy’s anxious questions.

  Instead the girl skipped to the back porch, put her hands to her mouth, and called for Barry and Hans to come for lunch. A triangle and metal rod hung beside her, but she ignored them.

  The rest of the day passed without a hitch. Saundra made strudel while Angie and Judy watched with interest, trying to memorize each step.

  The men had more leftover stew for supper but this time with corn bread.

  “What variety!” Barry commented, dipping his wedge of corn bread in buttermilk. “Stew for lunch and stew for supper.” He grinned at Judy. “Is it stew for breakfast, too?”

  Saundra smiled. “That depends on how much you leave in the pot tonight.”

  Hans picked up the stew pot and handed it to Barry. “Eat hearty, my friend. I’ve been hankering for shepherd’s pie.”

  They all laughed.

  Barry dipped a spoonful of stew into his bowl. Lane followed suit.

  “What’s on the top of your list for tomorrow, Boss?” Barry asked Lane. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “I’ve been thinking about riding down to the lower forty and checking out the pines down there.”

  “In this weather?” Barry asked. “It’s near zero.”

  Lane laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Just kidding, Barry. I wanted to get a rise out of you.”

  “You don’t have to tease him to make him mad,” Judy piped up, her eyes on Saundra. “Just pay attention to—”

  “Judy!” Angie cried. “That’s enough!”

  The girl clamped her mouth shut and tried to act sorry, but a telltale gleam in her eyes told the real story.

  Barry ignored her. “How about chess after supper?” he asked Saundra.

  She gave him a weary smile. “I’m sorry, Barry, but I’m too tired tonight. I’m going up to bed. It was an early morning today, and there’s another one yet to come.”

  “Christmas will be early, too,” Judy said. “We open our presents at dawn.” She smiled at her father. “Always.”

  He reached out to touch her cheek. “Right, chicky.”

  “I’ll help with the dishes,” Hans said, standing to gather bowls and cups. He spoke a few words of German to Saundra.

  “Thank you, Hans,” Saundra said in English.

  His kindly smile shone down on her like a benediction. Her smile deepened.

  “Uh-hmm.” Barry cleared his throat, a flush growing on his stubbled jaw.

  Saundra stood and smoothed her skirt. “Maybe we can play a game tomorrow,” she quickly told Barry. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Hans said, still watching her.

  “I’ll play chess with you,” Lane told Barry. “If you want me, that is.”

  “Fine,” Barry said dourly, getting to his feet. “I’ll set out the board.” He stumped toward the living room, his boots heavy on the wood floor.

  Lane paused in the kitchen door. “Would you mind making another pot of coffee for me, Angie? I’m kind of cold tonight.”

  She turned from the dishpan to look at him. Lane hardly ever drank coffee at night. “Sure, Lane. I’ll put it on now.”

  “Nice job on the cellar, Hans,” Lane said. “It hasn’t looked that good since we bought the place.” He paused. “Say, did you notice that funny low spot on the floor?”

  “Low spot?” Hans asked, pausing from his work. His head tilted. Suddenly serious, he studied Lane’s face.

  “It’s right beside the shelf of peaches. I’m going to take another look at it in the morning.” He turned away. “Thanks for the coffee, Angie.”

  Hans set a cup on the cabinet shelf and reached for another. His hands were shaking.

  Angie wearily moved through the dishwashing routine. What had Lane meant? Had he gone back downstairs while Angie took a nap that afternoon? Why had Lane said that to Hans? What was he up to?

  She wanted to go after him and make him tell her all about it. On the other hand, after that tense moment in the cellar earlier, she had a sinking feeling in her middle at the thought of another private conversation with him. It was a combination of fear and intense longing—fear that she was imagining his interest in her and intense longing to be with him. The way things were going, how could she stand to live in this house much longer? How could she stand to leave? What a muddle.

  She dipped hot water from the reservoir in the back of the stove and scooped coffee grounds into the coffeepot. Reaching into a small can under
the sink, she dipped up a few broken eggshells and added them to the pot.

  Lane and Barry were deep into their game when Angie brought a mug of coffee to the living room and set it down beside Lane at the game table.

  “Would you like some coffee, Barry?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. I’m going to turn in after this.” He moved his queen.

  “Hans went to the bunk room,” she said. “He’s been a godsend, always so willing to help.”

  “Right,” Lane said, a touch of irony in his tone. He moved his rook. “Checkmate.”

  “What?” Barry cried. “How did you sneak up on me like that?”

  “Sorry, old man,” Lane said. “You’ve been half asleep all evening. Maybe we’ll have a rematch tomorrow night.”

  Barry stood. “I’ll have a better partner tomorrow night,” he said significantly. “Good night.” With that, he marched out of the room.

  Lane picked up the box and started putting the pieces into their slots. “What did he mean: a better partner?” he asked Angie.

  She slid into the seat across from him. “You know he has a mad crush on Saundra. That’s what he meant.”

  He paused to look at her, black king in hand. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “No.” She said it easily. “Barry and I were never meant for each other, Lane. I don’t know why I ever thought we were.”

  “You were desperate,” he replied, “to get away from me.”

  Her jaw dropped. “No, I wasn’t!”

  “Now who is telling fairy tales? You must be taking lessons from my daughter.”

  Angie swallowed and stammered. “Every girl dreams of having her own family, her own knight in shining armor.” She looked at him. “But that’s not the way I feel now. Believe me.”

  He finished packing the game box and shut the lid. “I know, Angie,” he said softly. “I haven’t been easy to live with all these years.” He leaned closer, his eyes dark and probing. “I want things to be different from now on. I’m going to start looking ahead instead of back. For Judy’s sake—and for yours.”

  “Angie!” Judy’s sleepy voice came from overhead. “I’m thirsty!”

  “I’d best go up to her,” Angie said, standing. “The water pitcher must be empty again.” She scurried to the kitchen, filled a jar with water, and hustled toward the stairs. When she passed the living room, Lane sat sipping coffee and staring into the fire.

  Angie must have slept too long in the afternoon because that night she couldn’t close her eyes for ten seconds at a time before they popped open again. She tossed and wiggled, trying to get comfortable. Finally Judy mumbled something and lifted her hand.

  Not wanting to awaken the girl, Angie slid out from under the quilt and found her shoes by searching with her bare toes. She bundled into her woolen robe and moved to the window.

  A full moon shone on the yard below to make deep, eerie shadows that moved with the wind. She pulled the belt on her robe tighter and started to turn away when a darting movement caught her eye. What was that? She strained to see.

  A wide, thick form moved across the ranch yard with a steady tread. The person was too big to be slim Barry. It had to be Hans.

  Angie’s heart started to pound. She gripped the belt on her robe as though holding to a lifeline. The figure disappeared below her. He seemed to be moving to the back porch.

  Angie slipped off her shoes, her feet tingling against the icy floor. She padded down the stairs, avoided the squeaky step, and waited at the bottom step, her eyes on the dark kitchen.

  A feeble moon glow shone through the windows but didn’t give enough light to see even a shadow of movement. A faint click told her that someone had just entered the kitchen.

  Her senses tensed to an excruciating pitch. What if he became violent? Hans seemed so gentle, but who knew what happened to a man when gold was involved?

  A hinge gave a soft groan. The cellar stairs.

  Angie took one step away from the stairs, her hand still on the newel post. Suddenly a strong arm slipped around her waist from behind, a wide hand clamped around her mouth. She squeaked.

  “Shh!” sounded softly in her ear. It was Lane. For two full minutes he held her and didn’t move. After a while Angie relaxed against him and felt his heart thumping against her left shoulder.

  “It’s Hans,” he whispered finally. “I wanted to give him time to start digging.”

  “What about the gold?” Angie murmured.

  “I moved it.” He loosened his grasp on her waist. “Let’s go.”

  Moving swiftly and surely, he lifted a lantern from the hall table and struck a match. The hallway sprang to life under the soft glow. Lane reached the cellar door in two strides, flung back the door, and bolted down the stairs.

  “What are you doing?” he cried.

  Hans dropped the shovel and backed away, his hands upraised. “I–I—don’t shoot!”

  Lane stared at him. The only gun Lane Phillips owned was a hunting rifle that hung in the tack room. “I asked what you were doing,” he repeated, the lantern held high to catch the man’s face.

  “I’m–I’m—” Hans’s eyes bulged. He took a step backward.

  Watching from the stairs, Angie wondered if the German man was about to have a heart attack or a fit of apoplexy.

  “You’d better let him sit down,” she said. “He can tell us about it upstairs, can’t he?”

  Lane shook his head. “He can explain right here. Hans, you’d best start talking if you want to spend the rest of the night in a warm bed. I’ll put you out to walk to Chancyville if you don’t speak up.”

  Hans ran a shaking hand across his face. “It’s so terrible, Mr. Lane. It’s too terrible.” He sounded close to tears. “I’m not a thief. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Lane didn’t waver. “If you’re not a thief, what are you?”

  Hans dropped his hand. “I’m a poor ranch hand with no family, no connections, no hope for the future. I’ve spent my whole life going from one job to the next, working for food and shelter, working for a few cents a day. Is it so wrong to want more than that?”

  “Were you here when Amos Nissley lost his wife?” Angie asked.

  Hans stared at her, shocked. “How did you know that?”

  “We found a letter he left,” she said, stepping lower on the stairs. “Amos went to the gold fields and left his wife with one ranch hand to take care of this place. You were that hand, weren’t you?”

  Hans nodded. “I was a young fellow then, just off the boat from Germany. I had enough money to ride the train this far, and then I had to get off. Mr. Amos gave me a job. He was a good man. He had a fine family. That little boy was a jewel.” Tears glistened in Hans’s eyes. “It almost killed me when the little fellow died. His poor mother ended up in her grave because of it.”

  “What happened after that?” Lane asked.

  “Mr. Amos came home in time to bury his poor wife. I came into the house and found him sitting at the kitchen table with a loaded gun in his hand. I think he was about to shoot himself. I grabbed the gun and got it away from him.” He drew in a breath.

  “When he calmed down, Mr. Amos told me that the gold had destroyed his family. He wasn’t going to take a single nugget with him when he left. He said that the gold was cursed, and he was going to bury it where it wouldn’t be found for years.

  “He planned to leave the ranch and find a buyer. He had me take the cattle to town and sell it to the drover. I was to keep a hundred dollars and mail the rest to him in care of General Delivery in Deadwood. That’s what I did. I never came back here, and I never saw him again.”

  “Why did you come back now?” Lane asked.

  “All these years I’ve thought about the gold. There was a lot of it, a big sack full. I saw it.”

  “Why didn’t you come back right away?” Angie asked.

  “I did. But Mr. Amos had sold the ranch to a tough bunch of brothers. They all carried Winchesters and warned off anybody they
didn’t know. When one of them pointed a gun at me and told me to move on, I moved on.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  “Then this winter I ran up on some bad times. My job played out before cold weather had even set in. I had no money saved to see me through the winter. So I set off walking across the country and prayed that the ranch sat empty or else that a good family lived here now, one that would give me a job and a place to sleep.”

  Hans looked down, shame on his heavy features. “You were the answer to my prayers. And now look at what I’ve done to you.”

  Lane spoke. “You haven’t done anything to us, Hans. The gold doesn’t belong to us.”

  “But it does,” he said. “You bought the ranch and everything here. If the gold is still here, it should be yours. I should have told you about it.” He paused. “Once I got to know you, I almost told you about it—except—”

  “Except what?” Angie asked, watching him. “Why couldn’t you tell us?”

  Hans shrugged. “It was just a foolish man’s dream, Miss Angie. I’m too ashamed to tell you about it.” He looked up at Lane. “Are you going to send me away now?” he asked. “I’ll fetch my bundle from the bunk room and go if you tell me to.”

  “He’ll freeze,” Angie said to Lane. “It’s below zero out there.”

  “He’s not going anywhere.” Lane sounded bone weary. “Let’s go up to the kitchen and talk about this some more.” He motioned to Hans, and the German man edged by him to the stairs. Angie led the way with Hans behind and Lane coming last.

  Chapter 19

  Lane set the lantern on the table and pulled out a chair. He and Hans sat across from each other.

  “There’s still some coffee,” Angie said, lifting the pot. “Or there was. It’s empty.”

  “I drank the last of it,” Lane told her. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t fall asleep when Hans came in.”

  “You knew he’d come?” she asked.

  “I intended to catch him digging in the basement and then send him away.”