Texas Bride: A Bitter Creek Novel

by Joan Johnston

  “Some of these are pretty deep,” he muttered. “She must have been pretty mad to hit you so hard.”

  “She was.”

  “You must have been glad to get out of there.”

  “Yes. I just wish …” She wanted to blurt out all her troubles, blurt out the existence of her three sisters, who were still suffering under the rod of Miss Iris Birch. But she’d already sprung so many surprises on Jake, she was afraid one more might be the straw that made the mule sit down.

  “What is it you wish?” he asked.

  “That things were different.”

  She didn’t explain what “things” she wished were different. He must wish “things” were different, too. That they’d courted before they married. That she wasn’t so injured that she wasn’t a fit wife for a husband on their wedding night.

  She was most afraid that she would never match up to the amazing wife who’d died in childbirth, who could create such beautiful things with a needle and thread. Miranda’s home before the fire had been filled with servants. The only skills she had were those she’d learned at the orphanage: how to cook simple foods, how to mend tears and scrub clothes and cut hair—all the things that kept orphans looking good for the patrons whose charitable donations paid Miss Birch’s salary.

  She shivered again as Jake’s callused fingertips grazed her naked flesh.

  “You’re cold,” he said.

  She was pretty sure that wasn’t the problem, but she didn’t correct him.

  “I’ll be done in a minute and you can cover up.”

  She felt him attach one last sticking plaster barely above her buttocks. She blushed with the knowledge of what he must be seeing.

  “There. All done.” His voice sounded odd, kind of hoarse. He rose abruptly from the bed and crossed to the doorway. He turned once he got there and said, “I’ve covered the worst wounds. None of the rest should bleed through the nightgown. Finish getting dressed and get into bed. I’ll be back as soon as I put this gauze away in the kitchen.”

  They both knew he could have put the gauze away tomorrow morning, but it made a good excuse for him to leave her alone. The moment he closed the door behind him, Miranda eased the nightgown back up over her shoulders and tied the bow that closed the front. She realized how convenient the garment was for a husband, who would only have to untie that bow to ease the gown off her shoulders and leave her bare to his gaze. Did lovers ever take off all their clothes in bed? She hadn’t asked her friend that question.

  Miranda debated whether to turn down the lamp when she got into bed, but it seemed silly to do so when Jake had already seen a great deal of her unclothed. It wasn’t until Jake knocked at the door that she realized he still had to undress.

  She leaned over to turn down the lamp, but he opened the door and caught her halfway there. She pulled the covers up to her shoulders and stared at him like a deer in his gun sight.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  “I was going to turn down the lamp.”

  She saw in his face the moment he realized why she wanted the lamp out. He crossed to the end table and turned the wick down. Without the light, the room was pitch black.

  She heard him working his way around the foot of the bed to the other side. She heard the swish of cloth and something hit the floor, then the sound of a belt being unbuckled and the brush of denim.

  Jake grunted as he slumped onto the bed and she realized he had to pull off his boots and socks. She heard each boot thump on the rag rug as they came off. Then she could hear—and feel—him kicking his Levi’s the rest of the way off.

  She wondered if he planned to strip naked. Surely not. The bedsprings squeaked as he lay down, and the covers shifted as he pulled them over himself.

  Then he was still. Too still.

  She felt frozen in place. The situation was ridiculous. She would have laughed if her throat hadn’t been too tight for any sound to come out.

  “Good night,” he said at last.

  Startled, she said, “Good night,” back.

  That was it? This was the night she’d been so anxious about? They were lying on opposite sides of a small bed, but it felt like there was an ocean between them. She stared hard in Jake’s direction, but there was no moonlight, so she couldn’t even make out the shape of his body in the bed.

  This couldn’t be all there was to being married. Her husband hadn’t done what her friend at the orphanage had said he would do. He hadn’t put the male part of himself inside her.

  It suddenly dawned on her that Jake must be staying on his own side of the bed in consideration of the wounds on her back. She felt a flush of gratitude.

  “Thank you,” she whispered into the dark.

  “For what?”

  “I know this isn’t the wedding night you must have imagined. I mean, after all your effort and the expense of getting a mail-order bride here from Chicago, you must have hoped—”

  “It’s all right,” he interrupted. “I have a confession to make. I should have said something sooner, but the time never seemed right.”

  She was almost afraid to hear what he had to say. Was there some flaw in his character he hadn’t revealed? She waited a long time before he spoke again.

  “I don’t intend for us to have marital relations.”

  “I know,” she said. “Tonight—”

  “Ever.”

  She sat bolt upright in the dark, hissing when the flannel nightgown rubbed against a few wounds that weren’t covered. The gown was caught under her, and when she tried to move, she nearly strangled on the bow at her throat. She wriggled around and pulled the cloth out from under herself. “I don’t understand.” She could feel the mattress moving beside her and assumed he was sitting up, too.

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “I don’t understand why you wanted a wife, if—” She cut herself off as she realized what had been staring her in the face ever since he’d first mentioned his precious Priss. He’d loved his first wife so much that no one could replace her. What he’d needed was a babysitter and a housekeeper. That was the role he intended she should have here in his home.

  Her life in that limited role stretched out endlessly before her. It was the miserable orphanage all over again, except she could always hope Jake wouldn’t beat her. She would be taking care of a chair-bound old man and a baby in diapers and her two brothers and her husband. She might as well have stayed in Chicago and washed dishes. At least that way she would have earned wages.

  As an unpaid wife, she would be cooking and cleaning and sewing, with maybe some gardening thrown in. Which meant canning, she supposed, although she had no idea how to do that. She would not be a loved and valued partner. She would be unpaid household help.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  The bedsprings creaked, and she imagined him turning toward her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “What if I don’t like that arrangement?”

  “That’s the way it’s going to be.”

  “What if I don’t like that arrangement?” she repeated.

  He didn’t answer her right away. She wondered what he would do if she leaned over and kissed him right on the mouth, something her friend at the orphanage said would feel lovely. That was the exact word she’d used: lovely.

  Oh, how she was tempted!

  But she didn’t have the nerve. She was too scared of how Jake might react. Too scared of being rejected. That would be the perfect ending to this whole miserable journey.

  “On second thought, I take back my objection,” she said. “The arrangement you’re suggesting is fine with me.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to have relations with you, either.” Her voice was full of anger at him—and pity for herself.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

  “Not a damned thing is wrong with me!” It was the first time in her life Miranda had used a swear word. Oh, how good it felt! “You’re the one with the proble
m,” she said. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me tonight and every night from now on, as long as we both shall live!”

  It was a great speech. At least, it would have been, if she hadn’t burst into tears after making it.

  She felt Jake’s arms close around her and fought like a wildcat, scratching and thrashing to make him let go.

  She didn’t make a sound. She was too ashamed that she’d fallen into such a trap, too angry that she’d let this happen. Hannah and Hetty and Josie were DOOMED. She was never going to be able to bring them here to live, when she wasn’t really Jake’s wife.

  She struggled.

  And he held on.

  Jake realized he’d made a bad mistake. He’d only wanted to protect his new wife’s life from the dangers of childbirth, but that wasn’t the way she saw it. He was afraid if he didn’t hang on to her, she’d leave the bedroom—and maybe the house—and never come back. He’d been a fool and an idiot. He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have let her think he was being considerate.

  “Settle down,” he said. “I can feel your back bleeding again.”

  She suddenly slumped in his arms.

  “Will you sit here if I let you go?” He was close enough to feel her head bob up and down. He leaned over and found a match and lit the lamp. He turned it up all the way. He glanced back and saw Miranda eyeing his faded red long johns. He wanted to pull his Levi’s back on, but he was afraid if he didn’t tend to her back right now, while she was quiet, she wouldn’t let him do it at all. He ignored his self-consciousness and got out of bed.

  He grabbed one of his handkerchiefs from the wardrobe and brought it back to the bed. “Turn around and undo your nightgown, so I can tend to your back.”

  She seemed happy to turn her back on him. He nearly gasped when she let the gown slide down her back. It was a seductive move, even though she crossed her arms around the cloth at her breasts to keep them covered and to make it clear she was only tolerating his help.

  He quickly noticed that one wound was the cause of the blood he’d felt dampening her gown. He held the hanky against the wound until the bleeding stopped, then made sure all traces of blood were blotted away.

  He realized that she thought he didn’t desire her. That was the furthest thing from the truth. The truth was, when he was tending her wounds, he’d barely managed to avoid kissing her shoulder and her throat and that tantalizingly bowed upper lip.

  He bent his head, brushed a blond curl out of the way and pressed his lips against her shoulder. He felt her quiver. He waited for her to pull away.

  She didn’t.

  He leaned in and kissed her throat beneath her ear. “It’s not that I don’t desire you,” he said quietly. “I want you. But …” He wasn’t sure where to go from there.

  “But?”

  He sat back and said, “Women die in childbirth.”

  “Oh.” In a moment he heard her speak another, more reflective, “Oh.”

  He waited for her to say something more, but instead of speaking, she turned and timidly put her hand on his cheek. Her hand urged his face down to hers and their lips met.

  He felt his heart thump harder in his chest. What was she doing? What did she want from him? He wasn’t going to make love to her. He wasn’t going to take that kind of chance.

  She broke the kiss and looked up at him shyly from beneath lowered lashes. “I’m really tired. Why don’t we go to sleep?”

  He found himself smiling with relief. “Why don’t we?”

  This time he helped her get the nightgown back around her shoulders, being careful not to touch her skin. He tied the bow at the front, keeping his eyes off the soft mounds that lay beneath it.

  He waited while she lay back down before he turned down the lamp and crossed around the foot of the bed in the dark. He slid back under the covers, careful to stay on his own side. He felt a little like a fox being chased by hounds that had managed to go to ground. He was breathing hard, but he’d escaped the danger.

  Then she rolled over on her side and snuggled close to him. “Is this all right?”

  It was torture. It was heaven. He could feel her soft breast against his arm. His body went rock hard. His throat went dry. He managed to croak, “It’s fine.”

  She sighed. “You’re so warm.”

  Warm? He was on fire! He said nothing.

  “The sounds here are so different from the city,” she said in the darkness.

  “I suppose so,” he replied. He could hardly hear himself speak over the thundering of his heart. The windows were open to allow the evening breeze to cool the room, and he listened to the familiar rustle of the oaks and the croak of the bullfrogs in the stock pond, and the lowing of cattle in the distance, as he willed his heart to slow.

  “Where should I start tomorrow?” she asked.

  “We can worry about that in the morning.” He faked a yawn and heard her yawn in reply. Then he yawned again, for real.

  “All right,” she said agreeably. “Good night, Jake.”

  “Good night, Miranda.”

  He heard her breathing become slow and even and realized she was asleep. He was awake long enough to realize this sleeping arrangement wasn’t going to work. Not if he wanted to keep his hands off his wife.

  Alexander Blackthorne felt his wife’s hand slide across his naked back in a loving caress, waking him as the pink light of dawn cracked the windowsill in their bedroom. He was immediately suspicious. Cricket rarely initiated lovemaking. Whenever she did, he knew it was because she was aware that, once sated, he would do anything she asked. Lately, they’d been on opposite sides of a very important issue. He didn’t want sex to complicate the matter, so he simply asked, “What do you want, love?”

  She kissed the dark curls at his nape, causing a shiver to roll down his spine. All she had to do was touch him, and he responded like a stag in rut. It had been that way since the first day he’d laid eyes on her twelve years ago, two months after the fateful battle at Gettysburg.

  He’d found her sitting in a rocker on the porch at Lion’s Dare, Jarrett Creed’s cotton plantation southeast of San Antonio. He’d sought her out that hot September afternoon to tell her that she’d become a widow.

  And that he was now the owner of Lion’s Dare.

  She’d been dressed in a man’s fringed buckskins, her rich, auburn hair caught in a single braid that ran halfway down her back. Her almond-shaped gray eyes had narrowed distrustfully at him as he dismounted and tied the reins of his horse at the hitching post in front of the two-story wood-frame house.

  She rose and took a step toward the porch rail holding a Kentucky rifle in her arms as tenderly as a baby. He’d had the feeling she knew how to use it. Not surprising, when so many grifters, rapists, and murderers were taking advantage of missing fathers and brothers and husbands—off fighting the War Between the States—to wreak havoc among the women left behind.

  As he stepped up onto the porch he noticed her head came almost to his shoulders, and he was six foot four. He surveyed her high cheekbones, her small, straight nose, and her wide mouth, the lips pressed flat with hostility.

  Her skin was the warm color of honey, but she looked thin to the point of gauntness. It was plain the war was taking a terrible toll not only on the soldiers who fought but on those left behind. Strangest of all was the wolf—he was sure it was a wolf and not just a dog that looked like a wolf—that stood by her side, growling low in its throat.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  He was startled by the question, which suggested she was willing to offer help to a stranger in these dangerous times. She could—and maybe should—have told him to get off her land.

  Only, it wasn’t her land anymore. Not since he’d won Lion’s Dare in a poker game from a man who said his name was Jarrett Creed. Creed had signed a note deeding the plantation to Alexander Blackthorne. The next morning, Alex had watched that same man take a musket ball between the eyes. Jarrett Creed lay dead on the
battlefield at Gettysburg with fifty thousand other brave men.

  “If you’re Creighton Creed, I have bad news,” he said.

  Her face crumpled. “Which one?”

  “What?”

  “My husband and three sons are fighting in this war,” she said in a voice that grated with emotion. “Which one is gone?”

  “Jarrett Creed died at Gettysburg.”

  He would never forget her ghost-white face or her ululating wail of grief. Anxious to comfort her all over again, he rolled over in bed and pulled her into his embrace, feeling his blood heat as she fitted her soft feminine curves to his hard masculine body.

  To hell with differences. The woman he loved wanted him. And even with fifty-two years in his dish, he wanted her. Craved her, like a dying man craves water in the desert. Needed her, as he needed sustenance to survive.

  Her hands slid around his neck and her lips found his.

  His tongue sought out the sweetness within as his hands cupped her breasts. He teased the nipple of one breast with his thumb and forefinger, while his tongue mimicked the sex act.

  She moaned and his body heated.

  Her hands weren’t idle. She sought the places on his inner thighs that she knew were sensitive, teasing him by not touching where he wanted most to be touched, until he ached with need.

  He yanked at her nightgown until he could get it off over her head and feel the warmth of flesh against flesh. She was sleek as a lioness, despite turning fifty-one on her most recent birthday. Her auburn hair was laced with gray, and her face had been weathered by sun and wind and age, attesting to the hardships she’d endured.

  But the woman he loved remained as spirited and strong-willed as the day he’d met her, and he found her very, very desirable.

  “Come inside me,” she whispered.

  No words were more certain to arouse him. His body trembled where she touched. He was aware she was inciting him, wanting him to lose control, so that he would be all the more willing to please her afterward.

  He didn’t care.

  He thrust hard and deep, and she opened herself to him, warm and wet and willing. They moved together in a dance that was even more sensual, more passionate, because they were so much in tune with one another.