When twenty minutes had passed, Madeline had started a fire with a little difficulty—one of the few menial tasks she knew how to do, from having watched the maids do it a thousand times—then laid out the gingham napkins and tin cups that had been packed into a basket, and spread open the paper that had wrapped the hunks of cheese and dry sausage. She’d sliced up the cheese and meat, and laid the hard biscuits to the side on a separate napkin. The sausage looked bad enough…she had no intention of tasting the dry, rock-hard biscuits. Mr. Porter could have those all to himself.
He returned a moment later, shaking the snow from his coat and beating his boots off outside the door. He came in, secured the door, then set the bucket in its place and hung his hat on a peg near the door. He kept his coat on, as Madeline had, since the room had barely warmed at all, yet. “Temperature’s dropping. Gonna be a cold night.”
Madeline’s eyes drifted to the bedstead, then shifted back to him. “Where will you sleep?”
He stood still, looking at her. “There is nothing but the bed and two small chairs. That table isn’t big enough for a child to sleep on.”
She held fast, refusing to drop her eyes. She’d stare down a grizzly bear before she’d sleep beside a man she wasn’t married to.
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll pull the two chairs up to the fire. But I’m taking the warmest of the blankets and a pillow. And don’t blame me tomorrow if I drive the sleigh right off the trail and into a ravine.”
She smiled. “It’s better than losing my reputation altogether. It’s bad enough I’ll have to explain to Mr. Croft that we spent the night in a cabin unchaperoned—I can’t explain away the two of us sharing a bed. A successful man such as he would expect only the best behavior of his bride-to-be.”
Clay sniffed, and went to throw another log on the fire.
***
They ate in silence a while, and Clay couldn’t help but watch the dainty way Miss Barstow went about eating her ration. She managed to hold her fingers in a graceful way that made him feel as if he were having tea in that fancy Clark Mansion he’d heard they were building down in Butte. Her hands were delicate little things, pale and soft-looking, with no trace of dirt beneath the trimmed nails, despite her cross-country journey. Her cupid’s-bow mouth bit off tiny chunks of cheese and meat, and he found his gaze drawn to it every time her pink tongue flicked out almost imperceptibly to catch a stray crumb. His thoughts wandered to places it shouldn’t.
He cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to have a biscuit?” The amount of food on her plate would barely keep a bird alive.
“No. Thank you.”
“Don’t like them?”
She pressed her lips together in what was probably intended to pass for a smile. “I suppose I’m used to eating different foods.”
“You’ll have to get used to eating different out here. I don’t think you’ll find the best of Boston delicacies on the Montana prairie.”
“I’m sure Mr. Croft will provide me with whatever I need.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Just the basic necessities are costly out here. I don’t see Croft ordering in a lot of luxuries.”
“You shouldn’t judge Mr. Croft so harshly. I’m sure he’ll want to make me comfortable. As for the cost—Mr. Croft is a well-to-do gentleman rancher. I’m sure it will be nothing for him.”
Clay nearly choked on his biscuit. “Gentleman rancher?” What line has this man been feeding her?
“What’s so funny?” She frowned.
“Uh...” he stifled the laugh that tried to push its way out. “Miss Barstow, what did Mr. Croft tell you about his situation?”
“That’s a rather invasive question. But I know all about his situation, if you must know. I admit, I made too many assumptions about the distance of his ranch to town—I’m sure I just misread what he meant. But I’m very clear on the fact that he is a successful rancher. He said so, himself.”
“Did he specifically mention the term ‘gentleman rancher’?”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. “I...I’m not sure. If not, I’m quite sure he said something very similar...”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then set it on his empty plate with a sigh. He was risking his job by saying anything, but he couldn’t let this poor, naive woman trot off to become Croft’s wife without at least having her eyes wide open. It was like leading an innocent lamb to slaughter.
“Miss Barstow, I don’t know how to say this, but I believe Mr. Croft has been misleading you, if not lying outright. He is a successful rancher, that’s true. But he isn’t a gentleman of any sort, much less a ‘gentleman rancher.’ I take it, by that term, you mean a man who is well-mannered, rich, and lets others do all the work himself while he sits around reading books or having tea with his wife.”
“I never said—”
“The reality is,” he interrupted, before he lost the courage to risk his extra income, “he is out on the ranch from sunrise until sunset every day, mending fences and tending to the cattle with his workers. He may be the boss, but he’s a hands-on boss. He is not yet successful enough to rest on his laurels and let others do the work, the management of the ranch, or the handling of the ranch hands. And even if he was, I doubt he would do so. He likes to keep a tight rein on all his men, and make sure things are done his way. And Miss Barstow,” he leaned forward a bit, looking her straight in the eye, “things are always done Croft’s way. Always.”
Her eyes widened as she took in his meaning. Then she looked down, wiped her full lips with her napkin. “Well, Mr. Porter, you’ve made your dislike of Mr. Croft quite clear. I respect your opinion, and I hope you respect mine.” She shot him a cool glare. “Please do not sully the reputation of my betrothed any further. It’s obvious that you are jealous of Mr. Croft’s success...or his money, or reputation, or perhaps even the fact that he will get to marry a young lady.”
“Wait, you think I’m jealous? Of him? Having you?”
“Yes. I know there are a dearth of women of any kind around here, but especially true ladies. I’m sure—”
“Now hold it right there,” he fumed, pointing a finger at her. “You don’t get to attack the natures of the women here in these parts. You know nothing about them, haven’t met a one of them! My sister is more of a lady then you could hope to be, because she wouldn’t treat people disdainfully as you do, Miss Barstow. She is a kind-hearted, respectful woman, as are many of the women around here.” Clay stood, placing his hands on the table and towering over her. “And she wouldn’t dream of insulting someone who risked his pay in order to make sure a lady was fully informed before she married a stingy, mean jackass like Samuel Croft!”
“That’s quite enough!” Madeline stood, meeting him eye to eye, and nearly vibrating with fury. “You have been paid to transport Mr. Croft’s fiancée, not malign his reputation,” she snapped, her jaw clenched. “Please keep to the duties you have been paid for, and we’ll get along just fine.”
“Fine with me.” He pushed his chair away, grabbed his hat, and went out into the swirling snow, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 4
Hot tears pricked her eyes as she quickly gathered the leftover food and packed it into the basket. How dare he try to ruin Mr. Croft in her eyes—the very man who paid his wage for this job! It was completely inappropriate. He was clearly jealous of all that Mr. Croft had. And after his tirade, she suspected that her instincts were correct—Mr. Porter was, indeed, envious of Mr. Croft’s engagement to her.
Then she froze in shock as an idea struck—could it be that the entire story about needing to hole up in the cabin was nothing more than a ruse to get more time with her? Did he hope to dissuade her from marrying Samuel Croft, so that he could marry her himself? Or worse—did he hope to get her alone in the hopes of getting her to feel indebted to him, so he could take advantage of her?
Fear squeezed her heart, and she couldn’t breathe. Perhaps he didn’t even want to take
advantage of her. Perhaps he planned to force himself on her! He was a stranger—she knew nothing about him. And here I am stranded alone in the wilderness with him!
Her mind whirled as she thought through her predicament, and how she could manage to escape. Panic flooded her, and she felt faint. No, she thought, sitting in a chair, don’t let yourself panic. Think. He may be rude and insensitive, but is he a violent brute? She pondered the day’s events, all that he’d said, the expressions on his face, the way he treated her. No, there was no reason to think he was that vile. She was just angry at his rudeness. But could he have lured me here in hopes of seducing me? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t think so—he couldn’t command the weather. But she’d have to watch him carefully.
One thing was for certain—she wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him. Nor would she be undressing. She removed only her coat, and hung it up, shivering in the chilly cabin air. She debated whether or not to remove her corset, and decided the safer course would be to sleep with it on, though loosened, despite the discomfort. There weren’t even curtains on the windows to give her privacy, and Mr. Porter was likely standing only a few feet from the cabin. He was too level-headed to venture further than that during a snowstorm and risk being lost. Madeline had seen many blizzards in Boston, and during the worst, you couldn’t even see the brownstone homes across the narrow street.
Madeline blew out all but one lamp, then slipped beneath the covers, shivering at the icy sheets. The room had warmed tolerably, but the heavy quilts had kept the bed from warming up. She wanted to go look for a bedwarmer to put coals into, but knew that the wood hadn’t likely burned down to coals yet, and didn’t want to have to face Mr. Porter if he came in while she was up. Instead, she snuggled deeper into the covers, waiting for her own body heat to warm the bed.
A moment later, her sleigh driver returned. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall. She could hear him extinguish the lamps, stoke the fire, and toss another log on.
Then the bed creaked and dipped as she felt him sit on the edge of the bed.
What on earth did he think he was doing? If he touches me, I’ll scream...
She heard one boot hit the floor, then another.
Oh dear God...
The bed creaked again, and he slipped under the covers. It felt like he was facing away from her, which was a relief. But there was no way she would share a bed with the insolent man. She sat up, angry.
“Just what do you think you are doing, Mr. Porter?”
“Going to sleep, Miss Barstow.” He settled in, tucking a pillow under his head.
The outline of his broad shoulders in the dim firelight set off a flutter inside her. “No you are not. Not here!”
“There is no other bed. I’m tired. I need sleep.”
“You promised you’d sleep in the chairs.”
“I never promised. I merely acquiesced to your unfair demands, simply to please you. But you think it’s right-fine to insult me—and my sister—when I was only trying to help you, so I’m done taking orders from you.”
“I never insulted your sister. At least, that was not my intention. As for insulting you, you deserved it, since you felt it necessary to insult my fiancé.”
“I wasn’t trying to insult Croft. I only wanted to inform you of what kind of future you are facing, so you could go into it with your eyes wide open. I don’t care if you marry Croft. It’s your life. I just thought you should know what you’re getting into.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Fine, marry the mean, selfish bastard. Have a nice life.”
“You are an impossible man. Get out of this bed!”
“I see no reason to spend a torturous night in a hard little chair to please a woman who can’t—who won’t—be pleased.”
Madeline sputtered, unsure of how to respond. “You...you will get out of this bed, this minute! I insist!”
“Insist all you want. I’m not budging an inch.”
Madeline slapped him on the shoulder. “Move.”
“No.”
“Get out!”
“No.”
“GET. OUT. NOW!” she yelled, and shoved him hard.
His body barely moved. It was like pushing against a mountain. He remained silent.
“You can’t be serious.”
No response.
She growled an exasperating, screechy sound through gritted teeth, and flounced out of bed. Grabbing the heaviest quilt on the top, she yanked it as hard as she could, pulling it off the bed and dragging it to the table. After several minutes arranging chairs and tucking the quilt around her, she huddled uncomfortably in front of the fire.
***
Clay almost laughed at Madeline’s furious screech. He wondered how long her soft bottom would last on that hard chair.
That just spurred an image of how soft her bottom might be...what her skin would feel like...how it would feel to have her cuddled up next to him beneath the quilts, with nothing between them. The image aroused him, and he tried to bury the thought by rehashing their argument in his mind.
The woman was infuriating. He’d wanted to punch something when he’d stormed outside. He wanted to walk away from the cabin, to work up a sweat hiking in the woods until his anger was exhausted. But that would be crazy. Many a man had died in snowstorms only a few hundred feet from their own homes, because they’d foolishly thought they were “only” going to the barn, or some such. Clay wasn’t foolish.
Instead, he’d walked over to check on the horses, tied only a dozen feet from the cabin, and talked to them, muttering about the conceited girl he was saddled with. The horses huddled against each other under the shelter of the pine tree. He felt his body heat leaching away in the cold, but anger—and grudging respect for Miss Barstow, in case she was undressing for bed—kept him outside until he noticed the lamplight through the window go a little dimmer.
By the time he’d come back in, his anger was in check. Really, the situation was amusing, especially Madeline’s determination to go into her marriage with her eyes slammed shut, and consequences be damned. The prissy little woman hid a fiery temper behind her cool, ladylike demeanor. If she wants to be stubborn, let her. I’ve done my gentlemanly duty. From now on, I’ll worry about my shop fund, instead of Miss Madeline Barstow’s future. “Marry in haste, repent in leisure,” the saying went. Clay suspected it wouldn’t take long for Madeline to repent her marriage to Sam Croft, though he doubted she’d have much leisure time for all that repenting.
Clay didn’t know how long he’d laid there, ruminating on Madeline and her pig-headedness, but just as he began to doze off, the bed creaked lightly.
Ha! I knew she wouldn’t last long. He smirked under the covers, but didn’t move. He pretended to be asleep.
He felt her slip under the covers, and within moments, he could feel the heat of her body near his back. She must have tried to curl up, because her bottom brushed against his for a moment, then pulled away as if on fire. He felt the desire well up within him once again, and cursed the woman for driving him mad—in every way.
He had the feeling that by the time he reached Helena, he’d be going out of his mind with need, thanks to Madeline Barstow. He could satisfy his needs with a saloon girl, but the idea held no allure for Clay. Instead, all he could think of was the heat of the woman lying beside him, and how much he wished he could reach over and feel her lovely skin...
***
The next morning, Madeline woke early to the bright light of the sun glinting off the snow and filling the cabin, despite the single small window. She could hear Clay’s light snore, and felt the warmth of his body against hers.
What? How dare he—
Then she realized that it wasn’t he who had pressed himself against her...she had snuggled back against him! She froze, unsure what to do next. Some small part of her wanted to stay put, to soak up the warmth of his body. She could feel the cold air of the cabin seeping under the blankets, and her body rebelled at the id
ea of leaving the toasty sanctuary of the bed.
Clay moaned in his sleep, moving just a little, and the friction of his back against hers set off a thrill inside her. Something deep within her, a yearning, made her want to roll over toward him. He moaned again, and the sound made her yearning even stronger. There was something about his moan...it was almost primal. It made her blush.
She realized her thoughts were spiraling out of control, and she inched carefully away from him and slid out of the bed. She stood there, watching him for a few moments...the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest...the way his hair curled over his forehead...
Madeline was startled from her reverie when Clay moved in his sleep. She tiptoed away from the bed…and let out a blood curdling scream.
Chapter 5
There on the table was a mouse—the king of all mice—feasting upon the leftover food in the basket. It jumped when she screamed, just as she jumped, and climbed over Clay—who had bolted upright in bed from the shock of her scream—and into the bed beside him.
“What? What is it?” He rubbed his eyes and held his arm in front of her to protect her from whatever onslaught must have precipitated the scream.
“A mouse! A huge, disgusting mouse, Mr. Porter. Get it! Kill it! Please?” She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, nearly crawling into his lap. She realized that something hard pressed against the side of her bottom through the covers, but she didn’t have time to wonder what that hardness was—there was a filthy, monster of a mouse eating their food!
Clay blinked against the bright light of the morning, and saw the basket move.
Madeline shrieked again. She was mortified to find herself behaving as her mother always did on the rare occasion a mouse made it into the house and past the kitchen staff—Mrs. Barstow always leaped upon a chair, shrieking like a madwoman. But this was no ordinary mouse. It was disgustingly huge, with beady eyes, and it didn’t seem to be frightened enough by the commotion to abandon its newfound morsels of food.
Mail Order Regrets Page 4