Texas Bride: A Bitter Creek Novel

by Joan Johnston

  Her brothers usually arrived at the kitchen table already salivating. And no wonder! As many fresh eggs and as much creamy milk as they could eat and drink, and bacon or ham every morning, along with biscuits Slim made and butter she’d churned herself. Sometimes breakfast was flapjacks with jam, which was Nick’s favorite.

  Miranda could almost see Harry filling out. His nose had stopped running a week ago. She knew Nick must be a half inch taller. And Anna Mae looked adorable when she smiled, her fine black hair combed into braids tied with colorful ribbons.

  Slim had thawed considerably toward Miranda since Jake had finished the ramp that allowed him to get his wheelchair in and out of the house by himself.

  The first time Slim had wheeled himself down the ramp and into the cool shade of one of the oaks, he’d asked her, “Where’d you get the idea for a ramp?”

  “I had an aunt in a wheelchair,” she’d told him as she spread a quilt out under the same tree for the little ones to play on. “That is, before she died. Aunt Claire was married to my uncle Stephen.”

  “You have an uncle?” Jake said as he joined her on the quilt. “Why didn’t you go live with him, instead of going to an orphanage?”

  Miranda had no desire to air her family’s dirty linen in front of her new husband. So she merely said, “Aunt Claire had passed on. Uncle Stephen thought we’d get better care at the orphanage than if we lived with him.”

  “You were beaten at the orphanage. Didn’t he ever check on you?” Jake asked. “Didn’t he look to see how you were being treated?”

  Miranda was ashamed to admit the truth. But confronted by Jake’s question, she said in a low voice, “He didn’t care.”

  “He didn’t care that you were being beaten?” Jake asked incredulously.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “He ought to be hung,” Jake said flatly.

  “Family takes care of family,” Slim said. “That’s all there is to it. Hope I don’t never meet that uncle of yours. Don’t think I’d have much nice to say to him.”

  “Well, there’s not much chance you’ll ever cross paths, unless you go to Chicago. He owns a bank there,” Miranda said, pulling Anna Mae into her lap so she could retie a ribbon that had come off one of her braids.

  “Are you telling me he’s rich and he left you in that hellhole?” Jake said through tight jaws.

  Miranda swallowed hard. She didn’t understand herself why Uncle Stephen had abandoned them. She only knew he had.

  “That man’s got a soul blacker’n a stack of stove lids,” Slim muttered.

  “Uncle Stephen was always good to us when Papa was alive,” Miranda said lamely.

  “All the more reason he should have done a better job taking care of you after your father was gone.” Jake settled his arms around Harry as the little boy made himself comfortable in Jake’s lap.

  That afternoon, Slim had unbent far enough to allow her to cut his hair. When she’d finished with Slim, she’d offered to cut Jake’s hair, too. He’d refused.

  Not only had he refused, but Jake had gotten up and hobbled away on his crutches to do some work in the barn. Miranda had spent the rest of the afternoon wondering what it would have been like to have the freedom to run her hands through Jake’s hair.

  It finally dawned on her that the fact she would necessarily have been running her hands through Jake’s hair must have occurred to him as well. Very likely, that was what had caused him to make himself scarce!

  Seeing Jake at the breakfast table this morning, Miranda noticed he still needed that haircut. And she was still looking forward to the pleasure of running her fingers through his silky black hair.

  “I’d be glad to cut your hair for you today,” she said.

  “No thanks,” he replied. “You nearly scalped Slim.”

  “I did not!” Miranda protested. But suggesting that she wasn’t good at cutting hair—which was the truth—certainly made a better excuse than admitting he just didn’t want her fingers in his hair.

  Jake had been very careful to keep his distance from her, both in bed and out. She wanted to call him on it. She wanted him to admit the problem, so they could deal with it. He must know things couldn’t go on like this.

  He glanced at her, then averted his gaze. She stared at him, willing him to look at her.

  The silent tension growing between them was broken when Harry strode into the kitchen, a woven basket on his arm, and proudly announced, “I found nine eggs!”

  “Here’s the milk,” Nick said, joining him and setting a pail beside the sink.

  A moment later Slim appeared in the kitchen with Anna Mae in his lap. “This little one folded her blanket like you taught her.”

  Miranda felt her heart sink. The chance to speak frankly with Jake had passed. But life had to go on.

  “Wonderful!” she said, crossing to Slim and bending down to kiss Anna Mae’s tiny bowed lips. “You are such a good girl!”

  “Pick me up, Mama.”

  “Oh. Oh.” Miranda looked toward Jake uncertainly. Anna Mae hadn’t called her “Mama” again after that first day—until now. She didn’t know whether to correct the child or not. “Is it all right if she calls me that, Jake?”

  His voice was harsh with what she thought must be pain as he said, “You’re the only mother she’ll ever know.”

  “But she’s not your kid,” Nick said.

  He sounded upset. Almost jealous. Miranda picked up Anna Mae and set the little girl on her hip, then crossed to her brother. “She’s still a baby, Nick. I want her to know what it’s like to have a mother, something we’ve all missed since our parents died. Is that all right with you?”

  She could see Nick was torn. The truth was, she was the only mother he’d known from the age of seven. He must be a little jealous—and a little worried—that he was going to have to share her with Jake’s daughter. She leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I won’t love you any less, Nick. I promise.”

  He shrugged unhappily and said, “Do what you want. I can’t stop you.”

  “I’ve finally caught up with repairs after spending those two weeks on crutches,” Jake said to Nick. “Are you ready for that riding lesson?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “That’s ‘Yes, sir,’ ” Jake corrected.

  Nick ducked his head and mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  Jake had been insistent that Nick cut the profanity from his language, and that he address both Jake and Miranda respectfully. Jake had cut off her protest that she didn’t need her brother to “ma’am” her, pointing out that she was an adult and Nick was a child, and therefore, her brother owed her his regard.

  She’d been surprised when Nick gave in to Jake’s demand without much of a fight. There were still moments like this, when her brother tried to slide by with his old habits, but Jake corrected him every time. Soon, she knew, it would become automatic, as it had been at home in Chicago, before the fire.

  “You were gonna plow me a garden today,” Slim reminded Jake.

  “There’ll be plenty of time after Nick’s lesson,” he replied.

  “Nick and Harry and Anna Mae and I will be glad to help with the garden, Slim,” Miranda offered.

  “The boys can help,” Jake said. “Didn’t you tell me you planned to do laundry today?”

  Miranda grimaced. Once a week she washed laundry and hung it on a rope strung up between a tree and a column on the back porch to dry, but it was her least favorite chore. The only good thing about laundry day was that she heated up enough extra water in the cauldron for everyone to get a bath. Smelling sweet might very well help her plans for the evening.

  After breakfast, Miranda sent Nick outside for his riding lesson and started heating water on the stove. The old Southern mansion was starting to look less like a warehouse for ranch supplies and more like a home.

  The burned section of the house had been boarded up long ago, and she’d talked Jake into using some of the paint she’d found in the attic to cover
the wooden wall that separated that wing from the rest of the house. She’d also found a painting in the attic of a Thoroughbred racehorse and had hung it on the bare wall. She could hardly wait till the day they could start rebuilding the rest of the house.

  The lack of space in the house reminded her that she hadn’t yet communicated with her sisters to tell them they were going to have to wait a while yet before they could come and live with her. She hadn’t written the letter because she hadn’t figured out yet how she was going to get it posted, unless she appealed to Jake’s mother. Maybe in the next week or so, she could find her way to Bitter Creek.

  Miranda had been surprised to discover a wagon trail that Jake said led from Three Oaks to Bitter Creek. All she’d have to do was wait until Jake was gone on the range and get Slim to watch the kids while she snuck over to see Cricket.

  Would Jake’s mother help? If she did, would she insist on knowing what was in the letter, and to whom it was being sent? It would be difficult to conceal the recipients of the letter, since their names would be on the outside of it.

  So what if Cricket did find out about Miranda’s sisters? Miranda didn’t have to tell her about her plans to bring them to Texas. Would she guess on her own? Would she condemn Miranda for using Jake to save her family?

  Miranda forced herself to sit down at Jake’s desk and write the letter. That was the least she could do. Once it was written she could decide how and when and through whom to post it. She picked up a pencil and began.

  Dear Hannah, Hetty and Josie,

  That was as far as Miranda got before she realized she had no idea where to start. Should she tell them the truth—that she’d arrived to discover she’d been brought to Texas to take care of a two-year-old and a crotchety old man in a wheelchair? That half the house had burned down, and the other half was falling down around their ears? And, most dreadful, that her husband had no intention of ever doing his duty to her?

  She blushed at the thought of imparting that last piece of very private information. Of course she couldn’t tell her innocent sisters that! When it had fallen on her to explain the facts of life, she’d told them what she knew, blushed, and then said they would learn the rest from their husbands.

  Miranda grimaced. She’d been married for a whole month and still had not become a wife in the biblical sense. Making love remained a wonderful mystery to her, but one she very much wished to have unraveled.

  She focused her attention back on the letter.

  It’s hot here in Texas.

  She erased hot, which sounded uncomfortable, and inserted in much smaller letters “wonderfully warm.”

  It’s wonderfully warm here in Texas.

  Which didn’t account for the blizzard the second day they’d arrived. The snow had melted so quickly, it hardly seemed worth mentioning. Except she’d saddled a horse by herself and ridden out into the blinding snow to rescue her new husband, who’d sprained his ankle and had to shoot his own horse!

  She couldn’t tell her sisters any of that. They’d think she’d landed in bedlam.

  I have a beautiful stepdaughter named Anna Mae. Her mother, Priscilla, died in childbirth, which is why Jake advertised for a mail-order bride.

  Harry’s nose has stopped running! His cheeks are rosy and round from all the eggs and bacon and biscuits he’s eating. Nick eats tall stacks of flapjacks and has already grown half an inch.

  Should she tell them how well they were eating? When she knew her sisters were probably still getting the same gruel every day that she had come to loathe? She decided they would be happy for her and Nick and Harry. Now she came to the difficult part of the letter.

  I’m sorry to say, Jake’s house isn’t big enough for all of us. At least, not right now. It’s an old Southern mansion, but an entire wing was burned down during the war and Jake doesn’t have the money—yet—to rebuild it.

  I promise you, Nick and Harry and I will do everything we can to help Jake prosper so that you can join us as soon as possible—hopefully before too much more time passes.

  We love and miss you all.

  Your sister,

  Miranda Wentworth

  Miranda reread the letter and realized she’d signed her maiden name. After Wentworth she added the word Creed. Her marriage suddenly felt very real. Miranda Wentworth Creed was someone’s wife. Someone’s stepmother. Someone’s daughter-in-law.

  The note was woefully short of details about all those changes, not to mention information about when her sisters could hope to be rescued from the fiendish Miss Birch. But she didn’t want to lie to them. Her marriage was nothing like what a maiden wished for in her dreams.

  And there was no hope of rescue anytime soon.

  Miranda’s heart ached for her sisters. She wished there was more she could do for them. There simply weren’t any other options.

  She folded up the letter and sealed it with wax she found in the desk.

  In another year, Hannah and Hetty would be forced to leave the Institute. Where would they end up? And once they were gone, Josie would be left there all alone. What would happen to her? Miranda crossed her fingers on both hands and closed her eyes and wished for a miracle to reunite them all.

  “Are you all right?”

  She jerked and turned in the desk chair and stared at Jake. “I’m fine. I was just … writing a list,” she lied.

  He smiled. “A list of what?”

  She smiled back. “Things I still have to do today.” She stood and walked away from the desk, so he wouldn’t cross to see exactly what she’d written. “Is the riding lesson over? How did Nick do?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d want to come see for yourself.”

  “Oh, yes, I would!” She hurried toward him, scooting past him in the doorway. When he stepped aside at the door so they wouldn’t touch, she turned her head so Jake wouldn’t see her frown. The time had come to end the distance between herself and her husband.

  Miranda felt a quiver of expectation at the thought of what she might have to do to convince a man who avoided even touching his wife that he should make love to her.

  Tonight. Tonight she would finally know what it meant to be a wife.

  Night had fallen, and it was time to go to bed … with his wife.

  The same wife who’d brushed her breast against his arm at the corral, while they watched Nick trot in a circle, his fanny bouncing in the saddle.

  The same wife who’d leaned across his shoulder to serve Slim more green beans at supper, her shirtwaist falling open to reveal an enticing amount of cleavage.

  The same wife who’d sat on the parlor rug at his feet after supper, leaning back against his legs as he read a story to the kids.

  And the same wife who’d hugged his daughter and kissed her good night as though Anna Mae was her own flesh and blood.

  Sometimes Jake wondered if having sex with Miranda would be so bad. Then he would remember his wife’s screams. And the blood. And the child who’d made no sound as it came into the world born, and yet unborn.

  He didn’t want to take any chances with Miranda’s life, because he knew just how lucky he’d been in his choice of bride.

  She could have been foul tempered. She could have been lazy. She could have been bucktoothed or sharp voiced. She could have been thoughtless or spoiled.

  Miranda was none of those things. Day after day, she’d revealed herself to be an almost perfect wife. Almost, because she was also a managing female who saw a problem and solved it without necessarily deferring to his judgment. Almost, because she wanted his affection, and he wasn’t able to give it without also wanting to make love to her.

  There were supposedly ways of preventing conception, but Jake didn’t have any French sheaths, and all it would take was one accident, one time when he didn’t withdraw from her body before he’d planted his seed, to cause the disaster he feared.

  Was it a mere four weeks ago that he’d married a raggedy waif in a too-big dress, her hair tied in a tig
ht bun at her nape? He’d been attracted to that stranger. He was even more attracted to the woman she’d turned out to be.

  He was torn in two, wanting her and wanting to keep her safe. He hadn’t expected it to be so hard to resist her. He hadn’t expected to burn for her. He hadn’t expected the physical ache he felt when his body sought the release he denied it.

  He wanted to throw caution to the wind and make love to his wife. There it was. The bald truth. He wondered how long his willpower would last. How long could he resist his wife’s delectable body? God help me! He was a beast to even consider making love to her, when he knew the danger to her life if he got her pregnant.

  He was in the throes of yet another argument with his conscience as he headed for his bedroom. The instant he crossed the threshold, he stopped dead and stared.

  Sometime during the day, his wife had moved the copper tub from the back porch to their bedroom. Sometime after supper, she must have heated water for a bath. While he’d been saying good night to Slim, she’d undressed herself and gotten into the tub.

  Jake couldn’t take his eyes off the glorious shape of her small breasts in the soft light from the lamp, the nipples puckered from the cold. Which was when he realized the tub must have been filled with water earlier in the day, since it had cooled. She’d planned this moment … and was waiting for him to arrive and play his part.

  He’d been ambushed as surely as if she’d been hiding behind a rock with a carbine to shoot him down.

  He was too enthralled to care.

  Miranda lowered her eyes but didn’t cover her breasts. Her legs were drawn up slightly to fit into the copper bath but were hidden in the soapy water. He might only have imagined the dark, enticing V he saw between them.

  “Could you hand me a towel?” she asked in a low, sultry voice. The sound slid along his spine and caused him to shiver.