JOE'S WIFE

by Cheryl St. John

  Joining them as the day progressed came reps from nearby ranches, stopping to eat before heading to their own places. She fed them gratefully, this bedraggled bunch of cowboys who'd been too young or too old to fight, or who'd only recently come home to ranches in need of more attention than they could afford.

  All were respectfully solemn in deference to her widowed state and her mourning clothing, and they soon headed out.

  Purdy was shorter and wirier than Gus, a long gray handlebar mustache his distinguishing feature. He walked with a hitch now, and lengthy stretches in the saddle enfeebled him for days. Tomorrow he probably wouldn't be able to do much around the place, and the others would work harder to make his slack unnoticeable.

  "I'm gonna take care o' the horses now." He grabbed his hat.

  "I'll do it," Gus offered.

  "No," Meg said immediately. "Aldo and Hunt, will you see to the horses, please? You two—" she shooed Gus and Purdy with a flour-sack towel "—hit your bunks. I'll finish up here."

  "Yes, ma'am." The boys got up from the bench and headed for the corral. Gus and Purdy followed.

  Another hour passed before she had the dishes washed and beans soaking for tomorrow's noon meal. If she weren't so tired from checking the stock and doing all the chores while the men fought the fire, she'd have filled the big tin rub that sat in the space beside the pantry. The prospect sounded too exhausting for this evening. She'd settle for a tin basin of water in her room and sponge herself off.

  At the sound of a horse and buggy, she paused in scooping warm water out of the stove's well. She peered out the back door, but the rig must have continued to the front.

  Meg walked through the house and opened the seldom used front door. Niles Kestler stood on the grouping of boards that could only be called a porch in the broadest of terms. "Niles! How nice to see you."

  She probably smelled like cows and lye soap. Belatedly, she whisked off her spattered apron. "Won't you come in?"

  "I don't know if I should," he said, stepping from one foot to the other uncomfortably.

  He'd been to their home many times when Joe had been alive; Niles and Joe had been pals since their youth. But her widowed state changed that situation. For propriety's sake, she shouldn't have asked him in.

  Which was ridiculous. Gus and Purdy and the Eaton brothers had the run of her home, with nary a thought to impropriety. But to meet his standards of decorum, she stepped outside. "What brings you?" she asked.

  "I thought I'd pay a call and see how you're doing."

  "I'm doing fine."

  "Good."

  "How is Celia?"

  "She's well, thank you."

  Niles's wife was expecting a baby, but men and women didn't speak of such delicate things.

  "Harley spoke with me this week," he said.

  So that was why he'd come. Harley'd gone ahead with it.

  "I can get you a sizable price for this land, Meg. There are investors who will snap it up in a minute."

  Her civility fell to the wayside. "Oh? And would they be among those select few Northerners who got rich off the war?"

  Niles bristled. "The point is, Meg, you need the money. You can't keep going without some help."

  "Well then, how about a loan until I get this place back on its feet?"

  "You must know I can't do that."

  He could probably do it out of his own pocket. He would have done it for Joe. The thought angered her. As Joe's wife she'd had respect because he'd been respected. As his widow she had sympathy and little else. She'd known Niles her whole life, yet he wouldn't consider an investment in her.

  Exasperated, she turned and gazed across the expanse of dirt and grass to the corrals, where several horses stood outlined in the moonlight. "And you must know I can't sell. You know what this place meant to Joe."

  "I do know," he said quickly, and then added, "but Joe's not here anymore."

  "And what a nice commission you could make off the sale of Joe's ranch." She didn't bother to withhold the derision in her tone.

  She turned back to look at him. "You know you have to do it sooner or later," he said. "Don't be a foolish woman. Why not do it before you've sold everything that means anything to you?"

  "The ranch is what means everything to me," she replied. "And it's worth any sacrifice."

  He stepped back and placed his smart, narrow-brimmed felt hat on his head. "All right. Do it your way. But you'll be coming to me soon. And by then you'll be in dire straits."

  "Well," she replied matter-of-factly. "I'll do everything else in my power first."

  "Good night, Meg." He climbed up to the leather seat of his fancy buggy and guided the horse back toward town.

  Meg folded her arms beneath her breasts and watched him disappear in the darkness. Her anger had only been a temporary disguise for hurt and fear, and as it dissipated, tears stung her eyes. She set her mouth in a firm line to keep the desperation at bay.

  Movement caught her eye. Gus stood silhouetted in the doorway on the side of the barn where the men slept in roughly finished rooms. She waved, knowing he'd been checking on her visitor and her safety. He returned the wave and closed the door.

  Exhausted, she entered the house, dipped her water and washed up in her tiny bedroom before donning her cotton gown, extinguishing the lamps and climbing into bed.

  She'd thought about her situation every day and night since Mother Telford and Harley's insistence. It wouldn't improve. Without a man to take on much of the physical work, she couldn't keep the place going.

  And the Telfords would keep trying to wear her down.

  The more she'd thought about it, the more she'd resigned herself to the fact that a husband was exactly what she had to have. For the past several nights she'd gone over the limited possibilities. All the bachelors were too old or too young, except for three. Jed Wheeler ran one of the saloons, but just the thought of marrying him made her shudder. Besides, he wouldn't know anything about ranching.

  Colt Brickey was a year or two younger than she, but had come home from the war teched in the head. He could probably work, but she needed more than that—she needed someone who could help her make decisions.

  The third and last was Tye Hatcher.

  Still not husband material in society's eyes, but the only prospect capable of working and planning. He limped, but that shouldn't keep him from riding. If Purdy could do it at his age, surely Tye could. He'd done ranch work since he'd quit school to take care of his mother. He'd worked as a rep and helped with roundups, and from everything she'd seen, he seemed honest and hardworking.

  Once she had narrowed her options down to him, the thought of actually carrying out her audacious plan gave her pause. What would he think of a woman so bold as to propose marriage? Did it matter?

  If he said no, it was doubtful he'd tell the town of her foolish plan. And even if he told, the townspeople wouldn't believe him. And if they did, what did she really care? Holding on to the ranch was all that mattered, and at this point, she didn't have any choice.

  Meg recognized the bleak emptiness of this bed where she'd lain alone for the past few years. For too short a time a man's soft snore had accompanied the night. Now she lay awake listening to the sounds of the house and the wind along the timberline.

  She was contemplating bringing a stranger to the ranch. To her home. To Joe's bed. Plenty of women married men they didn't know, she assured herself. Tye Hatcher had always been polite and respectful in her presence. He wasn't bad looking. Not at all. It wouldn't be like Joe, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

  This was business, after all. Meg was a determined woman. She could bear a good many things to get what she wanted.

  Tomorrow was Sunday. He didn't attend church, but she'd heard talk that Tye often called on Reverend Baker in the afternoon. She would seek him out. And she would ask him then.

  Sunday visits were a custom carried from the East. As a boy, Tye had seen families gather for Sunday meals and an afternoon of vi
siting and play, and always on the outskirts, he'd wondered what that was like. His mother had never been accepted among the respectable residents of Aspen Grove. She and Tye hadn't even gone to church because of the rude treatment she received. But on Sunday afternoons she'd taken him to Reverend Baker's, where she'd had someone who treated her kindly. Apparently it was acceptable for the preacher to receive her calls; he was, after all, responsible for her immortal soul.

  But Tye never remembered any talk of saving his mother's soul on those visits. He remembered only the tiny measure of acceptance and the pleasure that gave his mother, and he would be forever grateful to the preacher for that kindness.

  The first time he'd run into the reverend upon his return, the man had greeted him warmly and extended an invitation to come by for pie and coffee. The preacher had been a widower for more than twenty years yet had the most well stocked pantry and cleanest house in the county, thanks to the dutiful parishioners.

  As his mother had done, Tye always waited for the dinner hour to pass. Often the reverend accepted an invitation and returned midafternoon. Then Tye would wait for any "real" callers who might stop by to pay their respects. And then, when everyone had gone home to their families, he would call on Reverend Baker.

  Today, as a late afternoon sun warmed the porch, they shared a peach cobbler Mrs. Matthews had dropped off and drank strong black coffee.

  "Ah, nothing like a fresh pie and good coffee," the preacher said, leaning back in the wicker chair and folding his hands across his belly. "And then a bit of man talk."

  With a grin, Tye pulled his tobacco from his pocket and deftly rolled them each a cigarette.

  Reverend Baker took a drag and smiled a contented smile. "The only thing better than this would have been if Mrs. Baker hadn't gone 'home' quite so soon."

  "I barely remember her." Tye thought a moment. "She was tall, wasn't she?"

  "Aye. With the face and voice of an angel. I think that's why God called her so soon. She's part of the heavenly choir right now." He gazed upward sheepishly and gestured with the cigarette. "This is just a little afternoon relaxation, my dear, and I still never do it in the house."

  A buggy slowed to a stop on the street, and Tye moved to leave.

  "Wait." The reverend held up one hand. "Don't go. This is our time." He handed Tye his cigarette, and Tye pinched the fire from both and slid them into his shirt pocket.

  A lone woman stepped from the wagon and, with a dart of surprise, Tye recognized Meg Telford, a beaded reticule dangling from her wrist. She gathered her black skirts and agilely mounted the wooden porch stairs. Her light floral scent reached Tye before she did. Violets.

  "Afternoon, Miz Telford." The preacher rose to greet her.

  "Good afternoon, Reverend Baker. Mr. Hatcher."

  The minister smiled in satisfaction at her acknowledgment of Tye.

  "Mrs. Telford." Tye stood and addressed her properly.

  She seated herself in one of the wicker chairs and removed her stiff black bonnet. A lock of her shiny hair snagged and caressed her neck for a moment before she caught it and tucked it neatly back into place.

  "Would you like some cobbler?" the reverend asked. "I have coffee, too."

  "I would enjoy a cup of coffee, thank you," she replied.

  Tye turned toward the door. "I'll get it."

  He filled a mug from the pot on the stove and wondered belatedly if she'd like cream or sugar. He carried it out and asked.

  "Oh, no, just like this is good. Thank you." She took a sip.

  She and the minister discussed the morning's sermon and a particular passage from the Book of John. Tye listened.

  After nearly a half hour of pleasantries, he prepared to leave. "I'd best be on my way. It's been a pleasure."

  "How did you get here?" she asked.

  "Walked," he replied simply.

  "May I give you a ride?" she asked. "I'll be leaving now, too."

  Did she think he couldn't walk? His neck grew uncomfortably warm.

  "Please?"

  He met her eyes and found no pity. Perhaps she just wanted to extend a gesture of friendship. He wouldn't recognize the effort if it jumped up and bit him on the butt. "Thank you."

  Tye carried their mugs to the kitchen and wished Reverend Baker a good afternoon, slipping him the remainder of his half-smoked cigarette.

  He assisted Meg onto the wagon seat and sat beside her. She guided the team onto Main Street

  . "You're staying at Mrs. Banks's?"

  "Yes."

  "I hear she keeps a nice place."

  "It's clean. She cooks daily meals for those who want the cost added to their room."

  She didn't say anything for a few minutes. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned the cost of meals. Maybe she thought he couldn't afford them.

  "Tye, I wish to speak with you about something," she said at last.

  He looked over at her, thinking she had more questions about Joe. Or the war. "Go ahead."

  Her cheeks were pink in the shade from her hat brim. "Is there somewhere we could talk alone?"

  His mind raced. Alone? Surely she didn't mean alone. That wouldn't be right. She just meant where they wouldn't be overheard. On the Sabbath the parlor at the boardinghouse was generally filled with boarders playing cribbage.

  The saloon wasn't open, but he had a key. Stupid thought.

  There was a small pastry shop across the street, but it was never open on Sunday afternoons.

  She seemed to be looking about with the same dilemma. She reined the horses to a halt and pulled the brake handle. She met his eyes directly. "Your room?"

  Tye couldn't have been more shocked if she'd started to disrobe on Main Street

  . What on earth did she have to say that she couldn't have said on the ride here? And why did she want to say it to him? "What if someone sees you coming in?"

  "I have a perfect right to visit anyone I like." She lifted her chin defensively. "I would hardly leave my horses and wagon here in plain sight if I planned on doing something shameful. Besides, we'll leave your door open."

  Tye glanced from her sincere face to the practically deserted street. "If you're sure."

  "I'm sure." She hopped down ahead of him, and he took a little longer, easing his foot to the ground without jarring his leg.

  Tye stayed between Meg and the parlor door as they passed, preventing her from being seen, not that anyone looked up.

  She walked ahead of him up the flight of stairs, and he struggled to keep his eyes from her shapely backside beneath the rustling ebony dress. A titillating glimpse of white eyelet petticoats caught his eye when he looked down. He concentrated on his hand on the banister, thought about placing one foot in front of the other. He was taking Meg Telford to his room.

  In a million years, he'd never have even dreamed up this possibility. Unlocking his door, he pushed it open wide and ushered her in.

  She glanced around. There wasn't much to see. His other shirt and trousers were at the laundry. His saddlebags and guns were pushed under the bed. The room looked just as it had when Yetta Banks had rented it to him months ago.

  Tye picked up the straight-backed chair and moved it in a direct line in front of the open door and gestured for her to be seated.

  She did so, arranging her skirts and holding the reticule in her lap. What did women carry in those silly things, anyway?

  Tye had little experience with women of quality, and her presence in his room doubly confounded him. He deliberately avoided sitting on the bed and stood uncomfortably by the bureau.

  "I have a business proposition to offer you," she stated.

  He waited, unable to imagine any business Joe Telford's widow would have with him, and not even willing to guess.

  "I'm having a difficult time with the ranch."

  He hated that news. She'd seemed so happy when Joe was alive. "I'm sorry. Can I do something to help?"

  She raised her head and looked him in the eye, unsettling him, unaccustomed as
he was to having women meet his gaze. "There is. I just don't know if you'll be willing."

  "What is it?"

  "The Telfords are putting a lot of pressure on me to sell."

  Damn! Her husband had bought a prime piece of land, and if she was offering it to him, he hadn't a snowball's chance in hell of coming up with enough money.

  "I won't sell, however." Her chin rose a notch once again. "I'm determined to hang on to the ranch. Joe and I bought that place together. He sank money and time and all his dreams into making a go of it, and I'm not going to sell out just because things are a little tough. Not without a fight."

  "I admire that. I wouldn't sell it if it was mine."

  "That's what I want to talk to you about."

  "What?"

  "I have two old men and two young boys besides myself. Last year I hired a few extra reps for roundup, but I can't do it again. I've had to sell several things to keep the place going."

  She knew he didn't have any money, so the only thing she could want from him would be labor. "Are you asking me to work for you? I've tried to get work everywhere, but no one will take me on."

  "I couldn't pay you, Tye," she said plainly. She took a deep breath and hurried on. "What I've decided I need is a husband. That way, you'd have a stake in the place. The work you did would be to your own benefit. As you know, when a man marries, his wife's property becomes his."

  He stared. Deepening pink tinged her smooth cheeks.

  Slowly, he worked at assimilating her words and the idea behind them. He raised a hand to knead the back of his neck and took an unconscious step or two. "I think I'm confused here. What is it you're asking me?"

  "I'm asking you to marry me."

  He looked her over for some gross mistaken identity. This was Meg Telford, no doubt about it. Meg Telford in his room. Asking him to marry her. He shook his head to clear it. "You don't know what you're asking."

  "Yes, I do."

  "You can't. Nobody in Aspen Grove will even look at me or talk to me. You'd lose the respect of everyone in town if anyone knew you were here right now. You saw how your family acted when you talked to me in the mercantile! You can't want to marry me."