Polly was standing over a large pot with her arm clear down inside it. Leah hated to disturb her, but they needed to talk. “Ahem.”
Polly jumped and turned. “Goodness, you nearly scared what little life I’ve got remaining out of me.”
Leah smiled at the older woman’s joking. Polly’s chubby cheeks were bright red, and wisps of grayish-brown hair had escaped her bun and curled around her face.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I could talk to you about something.”
“Sure thing. Just let me finish up this pot. Help yourself to some coffee, if you’ve a mind to.”
Leah skipped the coffee and surveyed the large kitchen. Something simmered on the stove, and several pies cooled near the open window. Beside her was a large shelf that held dozens of blue tin plates, bowls, and coffee cups. Almost everything was in its place, ready for the next round of serving to begin.
“You picked a good time to come. The lunch rush is over, and supper won’t start for a few hours yet.” Polly lugged the big pot to the back door and tossed out the soapy water; then she poured in fresh water from a bucket, swished it around, and threw it out the door, too. She set the pot upside down on a table that had spaces between the wooden slats, which served as her drying table. Polly wiped her hands on her apron and set them on her ample hips. “Now, how can I help you—Miss Bennett, isn’t it?”
“Care to sit down?” Leah asked. “I’m sure you must be exhausted. And please, call me Leah.”
Polly nodded and limped into the dining room. She picked up a mortuary advertisement that was attached to a flat stick and started fanning herself. “I’m getting too old for all this work, but I’ve got to have some income.”
“Have you never married?”
Polly lifted her hand to her chest. “Of course, but my Wilbur died young. So sad.”
“How is it you have the same last name as your sister?”
Polly smiled. “Dolly and me married brothers, we did. They weren’t twins like us, though. Walter was Dolly’s husband. He lived two years longer than Wilbur. Farming is hard on men and can be dangerous.”
Leah wanted to ask what had happened, but it wouldn’t be proper. She might as well get to the point. “Mrs. Davis told me that you’d be baking cookies and pies for the social the Corbetts are hosting.”
Polly swatted her fan at a fly but missed it. “Mercy sakes, I told them boys I don’t have the time or energy for any more baking, but they insisted. They begged me and offered good money. It’s hard to resist their handsome smiles and those charming blue eyes of theirs—and trust me—they use them to their advantage as much as they can.”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you about.”
Polly’s brows darted up. “You interested in one of them boys? I think of them like sons, I do.”
Leah’s heart jolted, and she lifted her hand up. “No, that’s not it at all. I was wondering if I might be able to help you with the baking. I need to earn some income, and I’m sure you understand that.”
Polly leaned back in her chair. “Well, phooey. I’d sure like to see those boys marry you and that purdy Irish gal.”
Leah choked back a gag. She would never marry a Corbett, no matter how desperate she was. “Sorry, but I don’t think that will happen. Those two rascals are responsible for our being stranded here in town, as I’m sure you know.”
Polly shrugged. “Maybe, but could just be God’s means of getting you here. Time will tell.”
Leah stared dumbfounded. Polly was the second person today to insinuate such a thing. Yes, she believed that God could work in miraculous ways, but why would He bring her to such a town as Lookout? And then leave her dependent on the ornery coots who had brought her here under false pretenses?
“How about this: What if I let you use my kitchen and supplies, you do the baking, and we split the money? You can bake, can’t you? I remember them pies you gals made in that bride contest didn’t turn out so well.”
Leah nodded, feeling a tad bit offended that her cooking abilities were in doubt. “Of course I can cook. Even won some ribbons at the county fair for my pies.”
“That’s good to know. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them boys. They’re two of my best customers.”
Leah considered the offer. In truth, it made perfect sense. How would she buy the supplies, even if she’d talked Polly into letting her cook the desserts for the social? And where would she have done the baking if the woman hadn’t offered her kitchen?
She looked at the middle-aged widow, smiled, and held out her hand. “Polly, you’ve got a deal.”
Rachel looked around her tidy kitchen, then pulled out a chair at her worktable. Too bad this room couldn’t stay clean for more than a few hours at a time. She tugged a letter out of her pocket and smoothed it out, remembering Carly Payton. The black-haired, blue-eyed young woman had lived in the boardinghouse, posing as Ellie Blackstone. Rachel shook her head, thinking of how Carly had fooled them all, even Luke, though he’d been a bit suspicious of her. Carly had thought the real Ellie was dead, but she was, in truth, recovering from being shot and accidentally stabbed by a knitting needle during a stage robbery that took a bad turn.
She opened the letter and started reading:
Dear Rachel,
I’m still in Dallas, awaiting trial. There ain’t much to do here. I’m locked up in a cell but kept apart from the men, thank the good Lord for that. When I was in a cell next to my brother, he pestered me the whole time, blaming me for his getting caught. How do you figure that? I wasn’t even there when he robbed the Lookout bank.
Each day drags by so slowly. I’m bored half out of my mind, but I do have ample time to pray. I only wish I had a Bible and could read better. The marshal’s kind wife, Iona, has taken me under her wing and is teaching me to read better. She’s the one penning this letter for me. I can read some but hope to get better soon so I’ll be able to read some books and God’s Word to help the time go by faster.
They say my trial should happen by the end of the month. With all the trouble in this part of the state, the judge is backed up on holding trials. I don’t know what’s to become of me. Iona says most women who are jailed here are black women or Mexicans. They are often sent to the penitentiary. Sometimes the judge is lenient and will sentence a woman to work off her sentence for a local rancher. I’m praying for that but don’t hold out much hope. I’m a Payton, and though I never shot no one, I did steal and pretend to be that other bride. I don’t know what’s to happen, and I’ll admit I’m scared. Please keep me in your prayers. Have you married that marshal yet?
Truly your friend,
Carly Payton
Rachel bowed her head and spent the next few minutes thanking God that Carly had given her life to Him, just before her capture. How would the young woman have endured imprisonment without His help?
A noise sounded behind her, and she looked over her shoulder. “Leah, don’t you look lovely?”
Leah’s lightly tanned cheeks turned a rosy pink. “You really think so?”
She nodded. “I do. I’m glad you’ve decided to go to the social.” She noted Leah’s apron ties were hanging down her side. “Turn around, and I’ll tie that for you.”
Leah smiled. “Oh, would you? I appreciate your help. I’ve always had a hard time fixing my own bows.”
Rachel motioned for her to turn around and then tied the bow to Leah’s new apron and fluffed it up to make it look pretty. “I think this was a wonderful idea.”
Leah spun around, glancing down and looking apprehensive. She smoothed the front of the apron. “You don’t think it’s too casual for a social?”
Rachel shook her head. “Not at all. If you’d made a white apron, then it wouldn’t have looked as nice. The ruffles around the bib fancy it up, and the navy calico accents the lighter blue of your dress.”
Leah chuckled. “Light blue—that’s a such a nice way to say faded.” She sighed. “I wish I had enough money to
make a new dress.”
“Stop worrying. You look beautiful, and those men will be stumbling over themselves to dance with you.”
Leah’s cheeks flamed. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” Luke walked into the kitchen, staring at Leah. “There’s more than a dozen cowpokes and other men down by the church already, and the social doesn’t start for another hour yet.”
“I certainly hope some other women attend. I don’t think Shannon and I could dance with all the men who are likely to show up.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve heard plenty of chatter all week. Everyone’s excited about the social.” Luke leaned back against the counter and shook his head. “I have to admit, though, I thought this was just another of my cousins’ cockamamie ideas, but this one just might turn out well.”
“From what Shannon said, it was mainly Garrett’s idea,” Leah said.
Luke nodded. “Most of them are. Mark’s more levelheaded than his brother.”
Rachel studied her husband, amazed again that God had given Luke to her. He caught her staring and winked. Butterflies danced in her stomach, and she felt her cheeks warm. How could he still move her as he had back when they were young?
Leah glanced from Luke to her and back. A playful smirk danced on her lips as if she’d understood Rachel’s thoughts. “I suppose I should head on over to Polly’s and start hauling the refreshments over to the social,” Leah said.
“I’m available if you need help.” Luke grabbed a coffee cup off Rachel’s shelf and poured some coffee into it.
“That’s probably not too warm, sweetheart. I let the stove burn down after fixing supper.” Rachel touched the side of the pot. Lukewarm at its best.
“I’m obliged for the offer to help, but Shannon already said she would assist me, and Polly offered also. We’ll be back before dark.” Leah waved and turned down the hallway.
Luke set his cup down and growled. “Come here, wife. I’m hankerin’ for some spoonin’.”
Rachel glanced to the spot where Leah had been, then walked over and peeked down the hallway. She and Shannon were walking out the front door together, and Jacqueline was outside somewhere, which meant she and Luke were alone. She slowly turned back to face her husband. “If you want me”—she wiggled her brows—“come and get me.”
Luke’s brown eyes sparked, and a slow grin pulled at his lips. “You don’t have to ask twice.”
He pushed away from the cabinet, moving with unhurried but deliberate steps. When he got within three feet of her, Rachel squealed and spun down the hall. She darted into the dining room.
“Hey, darlin’, you’re not getting away.” Luke chased after her, deep chuckles rattling in his chest.
Rachel gasped for a breath between laughs, and managed to keep the dining table between her and her husband. “You’re getting slow in your old age. There was a time I’d have never gotten away.”
“You’re not getting away. Ever.” His eyes gleamed with love and possession.
Suddenly, all teasing fled, and Rachel wanted nothing more than to be in his arms. She sauntered toward the end of the table, batting her eyelashes like she’d seen a saloon girl once do.
Luke held his position at the middle of the table as if he wasn’t too sure that she wouldn’t cut back the other way. But as she rounded his side of the table, a slow burn glimmered in his gaze, and he stepped forward. He lifted his hand and trailed it down her cheek; then he cupped her nape, tugging her up against him.
“You’re so beautiful. You’ve no idea how many times I dreamed of holding you when I was gone.” He crushed her against his chest. It was muscled. Solid. But his kiss was soft. Gentle.
Rachel stood on her tiptoes, kissing the only man she’d ever loved. Luke deepened the kiss, and their breath mingled together. Rachel felt lifted out of this world into a realm only a husband and wife madly in love could visit. Oh, if only they could go on like this forever.
The back door banged, and they jerked apart. Rachel grabbed the back of a chair for balance, and her chest heaved, and her pulse soared. Her lips felt puffy. Damp.
“Ma?”
Luke stepped back and acted as if he were straightening the chairs. Jacqueline’s gaze swept back and forth between them. Her mouth swerved up to one side, and she crossed her arms. “Guess you two were kissing again. Is that all married folks do?”
Luke grinned wickedly, and his gaze sought Rachel’s. “No, half bit, we do other things besides that.”
Jacqueline scowled. “What kind of things?”
Rachel’s heart stampeded. Surely Luke wouldn’t mention things her daughter was too young to hear about.
Luke ambled toward Rachel, and her breathing picked up speed again. Just having the man near set her senses racing like a heard of mustangs. He put his arm around her shoulders.
“Oh, sometimes we hug, like this.” He pulled her against his side.
Jacqueline’s mouth curved up in disgust. “That’s nothing. You hug me, too.”
“Other times…” Luke gazed down at Rachel with an ornery glint to his eyes.
No, please don’t tell her.
“Sometimes…we tickle!”
Luke’s fingers dug into Rachel’s side, and she jumped. “Don’t! Stop!” Rachel giggled and tried to get free, but his other arm held her captive.
“Don’t stop? Isn’t that what your ma said, half bit?” Luke renewed his efforts.
Tears blurred Rachel’s eyes. She wiggled and squirmed but couldn’t get free. He held her tight, but not so much that it hurt. “Luke, please.”
“Ah, now she’s begging for more.”
Jacqueline giggled and raced around the table. “I’ll save you, Ma.” She grabbed Luke’s arm and tugged.
Luke released his hold as if the girl had overpowered him, but just that fast, he scooped her onto his shoulder. “Where do you want this sack of potatoes, Rach?”
Jacqueline screeched with delight. Rachel’s heart warmed seeing her daughter and husband at play. This was what she’d longed for in a marriage.
“Help me, Ma.”
Luke jogged around the table with Jacqueline hanging over his shoulder. Rachel smiled, knowing her interference was the last thing her daughter wanted just now.
CHAPTER 11
Butch Laird stood on the outskirts of the crowd, leaning against a tall oak, watching the dancing. Cowboys and ladies in pretty dresses sashayed around the circle, doing a complicated square dance he’d seen before. How did they remember what steps to do next?
His gaze drifted over to the table of food again. Several kinds of cookies sat in stacks next to a half-dozen pies. The two boardinghouse brides hustled about, setting out plates and forks. His mouth watered, and his stomach growled when the blond picked up a knife and began slicing one of the pies. Was the food just for the dancers? When was the last time he had pie?
He and his pa rarely ate anything except for pork, eggs, beans, and potatoes. Bacon, ham steaks, pork chops, ham, and beans. That was his lot in life as the son of a hog farmer. Some folks would envy him, but he was sick of pork—and sick of his own cooking.
Butch winced. The last time he’d had pie was when he’d stolen one off a windowsill. He closed his eyes at the memory of how good it had tasted. But he’d eaten the whole thing, and then gotten sick. Besides an upset belly, he’d been riddled with guilt. He’d found some work and earned a dollar, then returned the woman’s clean pie plate to her windowsill with the dollar on it. He hadn’t eaten pie since then.
He moseyed toward the food. At close to six foot tall, he had the look of a man—at least he would once he lost his pudge and muscled up more. People often thought he was older than just thirteen. But no matter how much he worked, he couldn’t seem to lose his big belly. He was tired of the other kids making fun of him for being fat—for calling him Butch Lard instead of Laird. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped dinner. He just couldn’t stand slicing another steak off the ham ro
ast that sat on a plate in the kitchen. If he ever got away from Lookout, he’d never eat pork again.
A group of eight couples danced in and out to the lively music, and the women swirled around, their colorful skirts flying. Phil Muckley deftly swung his bow across his fiddle strings, while Nathan Spooner sawed his harmonica back and forth across his mouth. A man Butch didn’t recognize played guitar and tapped his foot to the tune.
Butch’s gaze swung back to the dancing ladies. He liked to watch them. Whenever they whipped past him, he got a whiff of their flowery scents. What would things have been like if his mother hadn’t died when he was young? Would his pa have been different? Kinder? Not a drunk?
He shook his head to rid it of such glum thoughts. Movement on the other side of the dancers caught his attention. Jack—Jacqueline Hamilton—stood in the shadows of the church building, watching the dancing couples. She was probably too young to join in, as he was, but that didn’t keep her from watching.
He scowled, thinking of how her lies had caused him to spend two days in jail for something he didn’t do. And yet, he couldn’t stay angry with her, even though his pa had beat him for not being home to care for the animals and to cook the meals. Even though he still hurt in places where his pa had taken a broken hay fork handle to him. He knew she had also endured a similar fate when her pa was alive, and for some odd reason, he wanted to protect her—if only she could tolerate him.
Jacqueline strolled over to the food table and started chatting with the two women. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but her lively facial expressions held him captive. He’d always wanted to be her friend. She reminded him of his little sister, Zoe, who’d had red hair and had been as feisty as a piglet. But Zoe had died before her first birthday, just before his ma gave in to the fever. He’d buried them together while his pa was away on a hunting trip. His pa returned without any meat and took out his grief and anger on him. But even a stiff beating didn’t drive away the guilt. Somehow, he should have helped his ma and sister better.
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