The hot goodness slipped down her throat to her waiting belly. The heavily sugared concoction was the tastiest thing she’d ever eaten. Instantly, she was ready for another serving. Soon he was spooning as fast as it took to lower and raise his arm. She stopped only long enough to drink from the mug he held to her lips, all the while aware of Shad studying her face.
“Good?”
She felt cherished, protected, and not too proud to say, “The best meal I’ve ever had.”
The earnest, deep laughter that followed her statement made her smile. Shad was quite handsome, and charming. Warm, languid tingles rippled up her spine that had nothing to do with the hot coffee.
“I can hardly believe that with all the traveling you’ve done. I’d guess you’ve eaten in the finest restaurants in the world. The best money can buy, I’m sure. Am I correct, Miss Ford?”
Was that bitterness? She was surprised. She brushed a stray drop of coffee from her chin with the back of her hand and glanced up into his eyes.
“Please, call me Poppy.”
He smiled and nodded. “If you’d like. Poppy. You’re right. Calling you anything other now will feel strange after all we’ve been through.”
A sensuous smile tugged the scoundrel’s lips, and he actually looked at the spot he’d just recently vacated on his side of the bed.
“I agree. But I’d still implore you not to tell my parents I just spent the last hour in your bed.”
He chuckled again, this time breaking off a small portion of the delicious-looking biscuit and placing the morsel between her lips. “You have my word as a gentleman. They’ll never hear it from me.”
“But they will from me! You can be sure. The sooner the better.”
Poppy gasped and turned to the door where Oscar stood, his face twisted.
“They won’t like what you’ve been up to.”
“I wouldn’t think any different of you,” Poppy shot back. “Of course you’ll be delighted to report my doings.”
How could she have ever thought him a friend? She was amazed at how stupid she’d been. Had he always been such a hateful snob who held himself in the highest esteem? That seemed impossible.
Shad, sitting on the side of her bed, didn’t even look up. “No matter that Miss Ford’s”—his gaze cut to hers—“temperature was dangerously low after her brave and daring rescue of Miss Aubrey. That doesn’t make a lick of difference to you, or to them, correct?”
“Miss Aubrey didn’t need someone to warm her body. Why should Poppy?” Oscar’s eyes were narrowed, suspicious slits. “Oh, wait, I know. Miss Ford has a fortune to win. Perhaps that enticed you. Can that possibly be the reason?”
Irritation flicked across Shad’s face. He glanced at her and then stood. “Someone should have warmed Miss Aubrey whether she wanted it or not. Body-to-body contact is the fastest and best way to bring someone’s temperature back to normal.”
The talk made Poppy tug her covers higher under her chin.
“You can bet,” Shad went on, “my warming Poppy had nothing to do with her wealth. As a matter of fact, that was the last thing going through my thoughts.”
Oscar drew up taller.
“And I have half a mind to shoot you for thinking such a thing.”
He wouldn’t, would he? Poppy felt her face heat with embarrassment. She wished Shad would stop. Oscar didn’t need anyone to egg him on. The situation would only get worse from here.
Oscar took a small step back at the threat. “I’m not saying you’re a fortune-hunter, but her father will, I can assure you.”
“Nothing happened,” Shad said. “He doesn’t have to know.”
“I think he does.”
Shad took a step in his direction and Oscar jumped back, his face full of fear. He always could talk a good story, but when it came to backing up his words, he was a coward.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Oscar,” she said. “Everything is so black and white in your eyes. I feel sorry for you.”
All the fight had gone out of her. She felt weak again and cold. She’d created a scandal . . . especially if Oscar told what he knew.
Oscar wrinkled his nose and walked away.
Poppy grimaced as her stomach pinched around the warm porridge, feeling her life had just taken an unexpected turn. What would come next, she could hardly imagine.
Chapter Forty-One
Sitting in the bedroom chair, Sally heard Roady a moment before he opened the door and stepped inside. He looked tired, as he had this past week. The weather had taken its toll on everyone.
And now the cowhand named Uncle Pete had been savagely killed. The kind man had been rather shy, but she’d seen the light behind his eyes. He liked to spin a yarn to make the men laugh, and the ladies, as well. He was a favorite with the children, taking time with the boys, always teaching them this or that about ranching or the cattle, or how to tell the difference between a meadowlark and a sparrow.
She stood and met Roady halfway across the room, taking his hands into her own. “How are the men holding up?”
He shrugged. “Seems no one can believe Uncle Pete is gone. It’s strange. I keep expecting to see his face or hear his voice. Lucky’s taking his death real hard, and so is Ike. I haven’t gotten two straight words out of Francis.”
She heard what Roady wasn’t saying. What she saw in his sensitive dark eyes and tight-lipped smile. His heart was broken too. These men had been together a long, long time. Working, ranching, living, laughing, looking out for each other, praying. The McCutcheon hands were more like family than comrades. When one hurt, the rest hurt with him.
Reaching up, she straightened the front of his hair, and then softly raked her nails on his scalp as she finger-combed the rest, knowing how much he liked it.
“I’m so sorry, Roady. How are you? You and Uncle Pete were good friends. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be. Especially thinking about the way he died.”
“It’s hard, darlin’. I won’t lie about that. What makes the tragedy even worse is we can’t bury him yet. The ground is frozen solid. Digging a six-foot hole is near impossible. We’ll have to wait until spring when the earth thaws.”
She hadn’t thought about that. How dreadful. “What will . . .” She brought her hand down to his shoulder, his clothes still cold from the walk from the bunkhouse where he’d eaten with the men.
“They’ve wrapped his body and placed it in the small outbuilding behind the barn. In this cold, he’ll be just fine.” Finding her hands, Roady lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “Gotta be thankful for each day we have. Never know which will be our last.”
With that said, he went to the water pitcher and splashed some into the bowl. He scooped up a handful and washed his face before looking at her in the reflection.
“Water’s warm.”
“I’ve been expecting you,” she replied, liking the way his loving gaze touched her. His small smile of thanks meant the world.
With a nod, he leaned over the bowl and scrubbed his face vigorously several more times, after which he reached for the towel.
Now was probably not the best time to bring up the letter, and his idea of sending a telegram to her oldest brother, someone whose height and weight might be intimidating to Mr. Greenstein. But waiting was becoming problematic. The walls had closed in and her thoughts ran wild. This course of action should have been done even before she’d run away from St. Louis, frightened, with an unknown future. She never dreamed her former employer would be so bold as to call on her family. He already knew her sisters to some extent, and now, with him visiting . . .
She blinked and pushed away the horrible thought. She’d not let him violate Anita and Melba as he’d done her. Could the man be touched in the head? Maybe he didn’t believe he’d done anything wrong. That’s how his strangely written letter made his sin sound.
Now that she and Roady had come to a decision on what to do, it was prudent to inform her brother Travis as soon
as possible. Being snowed in and unable to send a telegram was torture. Any other time, she would have enjoyed visiting with Claire and staying in this beautiful home, but not now. Time was of the essence. She needed to talk with Roady, make him understand her pressing need to get this done but didn’t know how to broach the subject, especially with the recent turn of events. When he’d told her of his plan, he’d said they’d go to town just as soon as they were able.
He finished drying his face and turned. “You’re quiet tonight.”
Sally shrugged, not wanting to add to his burdens.
Setting the towel on the rim of the washbowl, he studied her. “You’re not feeling sick, are you?” His gaze dropped to her stomach, which now resembled a small melon. “You’d tell me if you were?” With the difference in their ages, he often hovered over her like a mother hen.
“I’m fine, husband.” She glanced at the dark window, gathering her thoughts. “Just anxious to get to Y Knot, I guess. All this snow makes the house feel like a prison.”
“It’s barely above zero out there. That’s no place for you. Especially in your condition. I’ll open this window if you need some air.”
He won’t hear me with an open mind. Why can’t we take that sleigh in front of the bunkhouse? We could be to the telegraph office and back in a few hours—a half day at most. The trip to town can’t be all that dangerous.
Shamefully, the dead cowhand passed through her thoughts. Of course traveling was dangerous, and not just from the wolves. Fifty other things could go wrong, and they could be stuck. And the baby would be in danger. She had to think of him or her first, but Anita and Melba needed her, as well.
Before she could tell him not to, Roady unlatched the lock and pushed up the window frame, letting in a frigid gust of sharp, crisp air. Icy cold pricked her face and made her suck in a breath.
“Come on over and get a couple good lungfuls before I shut this. We don’t want to let out all our warmth—there’s not much to begin with.”
She had no other option but to do his bidding. He hadn’t caught her true desire why she wanted to go. He’d been adamant when he’d told her a trip would have to wait. She skirted over and stuck out her head, the cold painful. How did anything survive out there? No wonder his face, lips, and hands were punished.
Hugging herself, she backed away. “There. Th-that’s enough.” She giggled through chattering teeth. “Thank you. I don’t know how you stand it. Even your walk to and from the bunkhouse. I’m thankful you brought me over here before the big storm. I hate to think if I’d stayed home, and you were snowed out.”
He chuckled and pushed down the window, locking out the winter. “That would never happen, darlin’. I’d get to you somehow, some way. Don’t ever think otherwise. Now, tell me what’s troubling you. The snow can’t be the only reason.”
Hiding anything from Roady was impossible. She loved that about him. “I want to send the telegram to my brother like we planned. Each day that passes gives Mr. Greenstein a chance to violate my sisters.”
“We’ve already decided we would, when we can.”
“The threat is all I think about, Roady,” she answered, wringing her hands as hopelessness filled her. “Or dream about when I sleep. I understand about the weather, but I don’t want to wait. I don’t think we can.”
Roady moved to the dresser on his side of the bed. He shed the last of his outer clothing and took his long wool nightshirt from the drawer, slipping it over his long johns. After which, he slipped under the pile of covers.
“We’ve already talked this to death, Sally, and I’m tired. We can’t go tomorrow, and possibly not for a week or two. You’re just going to have to accept that. I promise you, just as soon as we can, I’ll take you to town.” He punched his pillow several times and got comfortable. “Or better yet, I’ll make the trip alone.”
“No. I want to go. And I need to check in on Heather at the mill. Is that all right?”
Sally heaved a sigh, blew out the lantern on the washstand, and circled to her side of the bed. After blowing out the stub of her candle, she slipped off her thick wool wrapper and climbed in.
In a rustle of sheets, Roady lifted his arm. “Sure it is. Come over and warm me up. I’ve been cold all day.”
She slipped under his arm and laid her head on his chest. He’d make things right. She could trust him, and she did wholeheartedly. Because of her baby, she’d always be connected to Eric Greenstein—the monster. He might already know about the baby from her family. Still, he had no way of knowing it was his. When it came early, there would be speculation but no proof.
Over the months she’d been in Montana, the pain of the attack had softened through Roady’s love. The land, the air, everything so large and clean. She was thankful for that. She shelved her fear, the pain, the shame, the anxiety. Eric would not affect her anymore. Never again.
But he could affect her sisters. In the course of ten minutes, they could be changed for forever, as she had been. Would he dare?
As if sensing her agitation, Roady slipped his hand downward, gently rubbing her back and soothing her ragged nerves. She shut out the emotional darkness by concentrating on Roady—thinking only of him. All would be well. Soon enough they’d take care of business, and she’d be able to relax.
She stretched her hand over her husband’s chest and snuggled in closer. Few things were as wonderful as passing a cold winter night next to the man she loved.
What would happen if Roady ever came face-to-face with Eric? Sally shivered at the thought, and even in his sleep, Roady instinctively drew her closer. To protect her husband from himself, a confrontation was something she’d make certain never occurred.
Chapter Forty-Two
A week later, Poppy sat in the corner of Shad’s room—which she still occupied, even over her protestations—in the sturdy blue-cushioned chair by the window. She had only her clothes on her back, and what others offered, since her belongings were sealed away in the boarded-off third floor. Shad had thrown down some blankets next to the lobby stove, saying that was plenty good for him, and warmer to boot. She appreciated his generosity since all the rooms were now occupied.
Hildy had moved in with Lenore, giving her room to Fancy. Everyone was anxious for the snow to disappear, and yet the sky today had darkened, indicating another storm might be brewing.
Outside, everything was still white. Not pretty and fluffy as it had been when the snow first fell. During the day, the temperatures warmed just enough to melt a little off the top, and then at night, the layer refroze into a thin, hard crust. On the road where men tried now and again to get around, dirt mixed in to make it brown and depressing. Poppy was ready for spring, even though they had many months to go.
From her spot, she could see Trent Herrick shoveling the back path to his father’s leather shop. His wide, sturdy shoulders moved to a rhythm of his own making. Every once in a while, he’d stop, withdraw his handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wipe his face. The snow, crusted for several layers down, was dense, Shad had said yesterday. To remove any amount took a real effort. For the most part, people were still huddled inside, fighting to keep warm.
Hearing giggles, Poppy turned.
July stood in the doorway with April and May, all smiles, waiting to be invited in.
She nodded and beckoned with her bandaged hands. “Please, come in. I’m lonely. You’ve showed up at just the right time.”
Like a train, July came first, pulling the twins behind, hand in hand.
“What are you up to today?” she asked. “Where are your parents? I’m surprised they let you out alone.”
Poppy had come to despise the man who never had a nice thing to say about his children. All he did was glare. And the mother, Poppy couldn’t understand at all. If she were ever blessed with such a darling family, she’d shower them with affection and love. The woman seemed incapable of doing little else than eat and sleep.
“We’re taking a walk,” July responded.
“We’ve been up and down the stairs ten times.”
Poppy laughed. “That’s a lot of climbing. Your sisters can handle the steps without falling?”
“Yes’m. They’re pretty nimble. Just like baby goats.”
Poppy held back her laughter. He was so darn cute. And spoke like an adult. “Aren’t you tired? Ten trips is a lot of stairs.”
July shrugged as he gazed around the room. “Nope.”
As usual, April and May’s hair was a mess. Their white-blond tresses were little-girl thin, but long enough to brush their shoulders. She suddenly had an urge to fancy them up. “July, can you bring me Mr. Petty’s comb from atop the dresser?”
His face brightened. “Sure I can.” He crossed the room, went up on tiptoe, and inspected the belongings laid out on the dresser top. He took a few moments to spot the tool. “Here it is.” He reached over his head, grasped the comb, returned to Poppy, and placed it her bandaged hand.
Feeling a slight bump, she realized her hands must be almost healed, for they didn’t hurt at all.
“Whatcha gonna do with it?” he asked, eyeing her own hair that Hildy had helped fix into a messy bun over an hour ago. “Can you manage?”
She twirled it around. “I can, but I’m still clumsy. I want to comb April’s hair.”
His eyes grew wide. “She don’t like that. You’ll make her scream.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see, won’t we?”
Keeping one step ahead of the children was a challenge. Poppy could see how doing so could take some work—but in a good way. She smiled at the girl she thought was April.
“You’re smiling at May.”
“Oh, sorry.” Poppy held out her hand to the other. “April, may I please comb your hair? It looks so soft. I’d love to make it look like Miss Hildy’s.”
Hildy Hallsey had beautiful hair that was always brushed to a sheen.
Montana Courage (McCutcheon Family Series Book 9) Page 20