Texas Bride: A Bitter Creek Novel

by Joan Johnston

  She decided it didn’t matter if she spilled a little water. She could wipe it up with the delicately embroidered hand towel that had been left on the dressing table with the pitcher. It was so beautiful, it seemed a shame to ruin it, but there was no help for it. Maybe if she rinsed out the towel right away, it wouldn’t end up bloodstained.

  Miranda carefully lifted the pitcher and held it over her shoulder and poured warm water down her back. She hissed as it stung her open wounds. She moved the pitcher to the other shoulder and slowly poured again. Water splattered on the floor, but when she was done, both the cotton chemise and the wool dress were sopping wet.

  She set the pitcher down and carefully began peeling both sets of fabric, cotton and wool, away from her skin.

  It wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped, because she couldn’t see what she was doing. It soon became clear that the scabs needed to soak. Except, she didn’t really have time for that. Jake might be back at any moment. She had to get herself out of her dress and into bed before he returned.

  “Ow!” She bit her lip to keep from crying out again. She didn’t want the boys to hear and come running upstairs to help her. She could feel the scabs tearing free, feel the warm blood sliding down her back.

  Her throat felt tight with despair. Even if she could blot up the blood streaming down her back before Jake returned, she didn’t dare lie down in bed until the bleeding stopped. Who knew how long that would take? If she just got into bed, Jake would find blood on the sheets in the morning and start asking questions.

  She didn’t want his pity. She’d managed fine for the past three desperate years. She planned to pull her weight here, too, and she didn’t want Jake taking one look at her back and thinking she couldn’t.

  She had to stop the bleeding, but she had no idea how. The worst part was that she hadn’t even freed the dress from her skin yet. It seemed to be stuck tight low on her back.

  A knock came on the door.

  Miranda moaned like a dying animal.

  The door opened suddenly, and she found herself staring into Jake’s stunned eyes.

  “You sounded like you were hurt. I thought you were hurt,” Jake babbled, startled by the scene before him. “I wouldn’t have come in except—” He couldn’t stop staring at his half-dressed wife.

  She yanked her bodice up, but not before he’d seen all of one small breast and a rose-colored nipple. She held the cloth bunched tight against her and stared anxiously back at him. “What are you doing in here?”

  It was a stupid question, since this was his bedroom. Their bedroom. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight of the two slight mounds of feminine flesh exposed above the cloth, behind which she was attempting to hide.

  He’d spent his time in the barn reminding himself of all the reasons he wasn’t going to bed his wife. It was plain he’d returned too soon. He was about to back his way out again, when he saw the red-stained water pooled around her on the light oak floor.

  “You are hurt! What happened?” He’d crossed half the distance between them when he realized her blue eyes had gone wide with terror. She held out one hand—the other still clutching the fabric at her chest—to keep him away.

  “Don’t come any closer!” she begged.

  He stopped in his tracks, eyeing the puddle of bloodstained water at her feet, finding more blood on the clothes she had bunched around her, and finally staring into her wide, frightened eyes.

  He held out a soothing hand and said in a voice he would have used with a skittish mare, “I’m not coming any closer, but I need to know what’s going on here.”

  “I don’t … I can’t … I can’t …”

  She was gasping for air, and he wanted more than anything to reach for her and pull her close to protect her, but he was afraid that if he took another step she might scream. The last thing he wanted was to wake those two little boys and have them come running up here to find out what he was doing to their big sister.

  Because he wasn’t doing anything.

  “Where is the blood coming from?” he asked in as calm a voice as he could manage.

  She swallowed twice, hard, before she answered, “My back.”

  “Did you fall?” he asked, concerned.

  She shook her head. A tear spilled onto her cheek.

  He felt his gut clench. “I want to help you. Will you let me help you?”

  She swallowed again and said, in the saddest voice he’d ever heard, “I suppose I must.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I can’t get this cloth free from the scabs on my back.” She angled herself so she exposed her back to him.

  Jake gasped. Her back was layered with bright pink stripes where new scabs had fallen off and red stripes where unhealed scabs had been torn away and white stripes where scars remained after past wounds had healed. He felt horror and pity and anger. “Who did this to you?”

  She peeped at him over her shoulder, as though to apologize for having been so severely beaten. “Miss Iris Birch.”

  “Damn that bitch to hell!”

  “I wish I could,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Why would she do this? What did you do?”

  “I met with my—” She cut herself off.

  He wondered what truth she’d decided not to tell him. She continued, “I met with my brothers after lights-out, the day before I was supposed to leave the orphanage. When we were caught, I took the punishment for all of us.”

  He started counting the marks. There were so many of them! “Somebody should take a bullwhip to Miss Birch.”

  “You can see why I had to bring Nick and Harry with me. I was afraid she would beat them even worse when I wasn’t there to protect them anymore.”

  “She beat your brothers like this?” he asked, appalled.

  “Nick, yes. She only swatted Harry’s palms.”

  “Are you telling me Nick has scars like these?”

  She turned her face aside, and he saw another tear fall. “There was nothing I could do.”

  He felt his gut twist again. “I’m not blaming you.”

  Jake’s mind was whirling. He felt like swearing a blue streak, but he didn’t want to frighten her any more than she already seemed to be. He couldn’t imagine anyone being that cruel to a young girl and two small boys. And Miss Birch was in charge of an entire orphanage of children?

  He wondered if there was anything he could do about the problem from here. “I’d love to get my hands on Miss Iris Birch,” he said through gritted teeth. But that would have to wait till later.

  “I wanted to get my dress off before you came back,” she said. “But it’s stuck tight to my skin by dried blood. I need your help to get out of my clothes.”

  Good God! There was no question of not helping her. But the whole time he’d been checking on stock in the barn he’d been trying to figure out how he was going to sleep in the same bed as his new wife and keep his distance. The bed wasn’t big enough.

  He’d reminded himself again and again of the dangers of having sex with her. It made no difference to his body, which hungered for a woman.

  He’d given himself a stern lecture and headed back inside. He’d been ready to sleep—and sleep only—with his wife.

  He hadn’t counted on having to touch her. He hadn’t counted on feeling sorry for her or wanting to protect her from an evil witch who was thousands of miles away. He hadn’t counted on getting a glimpse of a soft, womanly breast.

  He cleared his throat, which was suddenly tight, and asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  She gestured toward the pitcher and said, “I think maybe I need more water to soak the scabs free. Thank you for warming it, by the way.”

  “I used to do that for Priss. Or rather, she did it for me first. After she got pregnant the second time she was always so tired, I got warm water for both of us.” He felt discomfited revealing parts of his life with Priss when he was about to see the naked back of the woman who’d replaced her. The words had sor
t of tumbled out.

  He didn’t know why Miranda was so much easier to talk to than Priss. Maybe it had something to do with her being a stranger. He’d grown up around Priss. She knew all his faults and foibles. This woman did not. He could start fresh with Miranda. She didn’t know about—and therefore could not judge him for—all the mistakes he’d made in the past.

  He supposed it was human nature to make comparisons between Priss and his new wife. But it seemed unfair to Priss to think anything about Miranda was better. Then he remembered what Priss had said toward the end of her labor, when they’d both realized she might not survive it.

  “It’s okay to love again, Jake.”

  That was all she’d said. He’d said the only thing that had mattered to him at that moment. “I love you, Priss.”

  Jake felt the tears of sorrow that were never far from the surface, burn his nose. At the end, Priss had acknowledged what he’d refused to admit. She was dying. He would need to marry again. Their daughter would need a mother. And he would need a wife.

  He forgave himself for noticing the things about Miranda he liked. It didn’t dishonor the wife he’d buried to appreciate the wife he’d married. Far from it. The better he got along with Miranda, the better mother she would be to his daughter.

  He turned and collected the pitcher from Priss’s dressing table, then stood behind his new wife, ready to do her bidding. Up close, he could see blond tendrils on her nape that had escaped from the tight bun—and exactly what bad shape her back was in.

  “How did you travel like this? You must have been in a lot of pain.”

  “A little,” she admitted. “One does what one must.”

  “Whose rule is that?”

  “My mother’s,” she said softly. “She was …” Her voice broke, and he saw more tears well in her eyes.

  He felt helpless to mend what seemed most broken in her—her soft heart. “What do I do?” he said brusquely.

  She glanced over her shoulder and said, “You’ll have to move the cloth down to see where it’s stuck. Then pour more water there so the scabs can soak free.”

  Jake shifted the cloth as though he were stealing honey from a hive of bees and might get stung if he moved too fast. “I think it’s the white cotton thing that’s stuck,” he said as he tugged gently at the cloth at her back.

  “My chemise.”

  She was still holding both garments tight against her breasts, but he was tall enough, and she was so short, that he could see the swell of her breasts and the dark crevice between. He felt sweat pop out on his forehead, and his body stirred below.

  What kind of beast, what kind of brute, could become aroused when she was so obviously in pain?

  A man who’s been without a woman for more than a year. He needed to get her out of this dress and under the covers where she was concealed from view. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, as he held the pitcher ready to pour.

  “Go ahead and wet everything down. I think the scabs need to soak awhile.”

  He tugged lightly at the cotton, poured where he found it stuck, tugged again and poured again, until he’d soaked her back and the puddle under her feet had grown large.

  “I’m done. Now what?”

  She looked around the room. “I’d love to sit down while we wait for the water to do its work, but I don’t see anywhere I can sit without ruining linens or the upholstery.”

  “Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” He hurried down the hall to the nursery, grateful that he didn’t have to explain his appearance to Nick, since he was sleeping downstairs. He picked up the rocker next to Anna Mae’s bed, where Priss had used to sit when she was nursing the baby … and where she had planned to sit to nurse the baby who’d died with her.

  He forced his thoughts away from Priss. He knocked lightly on his bedroom door and reentered, carrying the rocker. “How’s this?” He set the rocker near Miranda but out of the puddle of water.

  “Thank you,” she said as she sank into the wooden rocker. She let out a long sigh. “I didn’t realize how tired I am.”

  She had to sit forward on the rocker because of her back, but at least he’d made it possible for her to sit.

  “What shall we do to pass the time?” she asked, looking up at him with temptingly innocent blue eyes.

  “You can tell me more about that orphanage,” Jake said, crossing his arms to keep from reaching to adjust the cloth to cover more of her bosom.

  “I’d rather hear about your ranch,” she said. “What chores will I need to do every day?”

  “I don’t want you doing much of anything till your back is healed. You’re lucky those wounds didn’t get infected.” Jake realized she was going to need something dry to wear once he got her clothes unstuck, and he headed for the wardrobe. He began rooting through it for one of his wife’s nightgowns. Whatever Miranda wore tonight was probably going to get ruined, because blood was bound to seep from her wounds.

  “I have a question,” she said, “but I’m not sure if I should ask it.”

  “Go ahead and ask.”

  “I wondered if there might be anything in that wardrobe I could cut down for the boys or remake for myself.”

  He realized Miranda wanted to make use of his dead wife’s clothes. He paused, because he’d passed by every one of Priss’s nightgowns—which she would never use again—in favor of ruining one of his own good cotton shirts.

  He put the shirt down and turned back to Miranda with one of Priss’s flannel nightgowns in hand. “Priss would have given a stranger anything she had. She’d like knowing that her things were being put to good use.”

  “Thank you. I wish I’d known her. She sounds like a wonderful person.”

  She was. Jake would have said the words, except they got caught by the knot in his throat. His hands fisted around the flannel nightgown. He missed his wife. He missed loving his wife. He missed the child he’d never known. He suddenly bitterly resented the stranger in his wife’s rocker. Or rather, the necessity of having her here.

  “I think maybe the scabs have had enough time to soak,” she said, meeting his gaze with trust in her eyes.

  Jake thought of what his new wife must be feeling right now. This was her wedding night, and instead of loving his wife, he almost hated her. She didn’t deserve a resentful husband. None of this was her fault.

  He dropped Priss’s worn flannel nightgown on her lap and took a step behind his new wife to begin the job of freeing her from her clothes as painlessly as possible. The soaking helped, but he knew he still hurt her as he eased the fabric free. Blood spurted from tiny wounds. He grabbed the towel from the dressing table and dabbed gently at her back.

  He heard her hiss in a breath.

  “I’m sorry. I’m being as careful as I can.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you want me to stop?” But he knew that would only postpone the problem. And how was she going to lie down and sleep, if she couldn’t get the dress off?

  To his relief, she shook her head. “The dress has to come off tonight. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  It seemed to take forever before the cloth was completely free of her flesh. “I’m done,” he said at last. He realized his hands were trembling as he gazed at her mutilated back. He bunched them into fists, one of which held the towel he’d been using to sop up blood.

  He took a step forward and she looked up at him.

  He drew in a breath when he saw the tears streaking her face. She hadn’t made a sound to let him know he was hurting her. But he obviously had.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to be gentle.”

  “You were. Thank you.”

  “I think you need bandages of some sort on your back before you put on a nightgown. I have some gauze I use for the horses down in the kitchen. I’ll go get it while you change.”

  He left her alone, hoping she would take the hint and get out of her clothes and into the nightgown while he was gone. She could just as easily hold t
he nightgown to her bosom and leave her back bared for the bandages he was retrieving from downstairs.

  When he got back, she’d not only managed to get into the nightgown, but her ugly dress and cotton chemise were nowhere to be seen. She’d also wiped up the bloody water on the floor. She was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for him, the gown slipped off her shoulders and held tight against her bosom. She was so tiny, her feet, which hung over the edge of the bed, didn’t reach the floor. Her shoes were off, but he saw she was still wearing her white stockings.

  She’d taken down her hair and apparently used his wife’s brush. She did indeed have blond curls. They spilled over her bare shoulders and made a halo around her face.

  His mouth went dry at the sight of her. His body responded to the knowledge that he was going to have to sit on the bed with this half-naked woman to bandage her.

  “I have the gauze,” he announced unnecessarily. “And some sticking plasters.”

  She smiled and he felt his heart jump.

  If he used the gauze, he would have to wrap it entirely around her. His heart pounded at the thought of what that would entail. Better by far to use the sticking plasters.

  “Ready?” he said.

  She glanced over her shoulder and said, “Ready.”

  Miranda shivered when she felt Jake’s warm breath on the back of her neck, but not from fear. She’d been frightened when he’d first shown up in the doorway, but as he tended to her wounds, she slowly relaxed. She felt almost comfortable sitting beside him on the edge of the bed.

  Almost comfortable. It was impossible to forget that she was half naked, sitting next to a fully dressed man. Jake had been speaking to her quietly, treating her gently, dispelling her qualms. Despite all that, an inexplicable tension arced between them. It made her stomach feel funny.

  She bit her lip to keep from crying out as he carefully blotted each wound dry. She felt him attach a sticking plaster high on her shoulder and another in the middle of her spine.