The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1)

by Sharon Ihle

  Hazel stamped her hind foot, twitched her long, skinny tail, and bellowed, but milk was not yet pouring into the bucket. Obviously the animal needed help of some kind to produce the milk, but Lacey was much too afraid of the beast to actually touch her anywhere. Perhaps, she thought, if she went gathering eggs now, by the time she came back to check on Hazel, the bucket would be full. Of course, Lacey wasn't so out of touch with the world beyond St. Josephine's that she didn't realize the odds were heavily against such a miracle. But that didn't stop her from praying for one. Or from going on to her next chore.

  She discovered immediately that she was not afraid of the chickens. In fact, chasing them around the barn was grand sport! Trouble was, they were afraid of her. Every time she tried to catch one, the thing would squawk, flap its wings, and take off running. Lacey ran after each and every one of the birds, even tripping and falling twice, but otherwise didn't slow down long enough to catch her breath. After a while, a pretty brown hen sporting little white speckles throughout its feathers fell over in a dead faint.

  Concerned she'd frightened it to death at first, Lacey gingerly cradled the bird in her arms until its little eyes blinked open. Relieved to find that she had not murdered one of Hawke's pets, she positioned the revived hen in the basket and began stroking the tender spot on its back between its wings.

  "There now, my bonny sweet chicken," she crooned breathlessly. Be` a good lass and give me up an egg, would you please?"

  Almost as if cued; the heft clucked, ruffled its feathers, then stood, leaving a nice little brown egg behind in the basket.

  "How delightful!" Proud to bursting of the accomplishment, Lacey scrambled to her feet with a renewed burst of enthusiasm, stood with her feet spread and hands on hips, and surveyed the rest of the scattered chickens. All of the birds were keeping a wary distance from her, but that didn't daunt Lacey in the least.

  Strolling down the center aisle in an exaggerated swagger, she sang out, "All right, you sweet wee chickens; who among you will be the next?"

  * * *

  Inside the kitchen of the ranch house, Hawke glanced out the window above his small sink and stove—not just the one with the best view of the barn, but the only window in the house favored with a pair of actual curtains.

  Wondering the same thing he'd been wondering for the past fifteen minutes, he thought to himself; where the hell is that woman? She should have finished her chores and returned to the house long ago. The stove was hot, the coffee was ready, and the sausage patties were arranged neatly in the skillet. Hawke was sorely tempted to cook and eat every last one himself, but then it occurred to him that the delicate Irish female might be having some trouble with Hazel, who wasn't always so agreeable to being milked. He had fed her awfully early that morning, and if she didn't have enough alfalfa left in her feeder to keep her occupied during the milking, well...

  Again Hawke glanced out the window. All seemed quiet and he could see a steady glow from the lantern streaming out from the crack in the doors, telling him that she wasn't having a problem with the light. So what could the holdup be? Had she wandered up to the loft in spite of his warnings? Or was she just dawdling? He thought of the way shed sauntered off toward the barn, of the almost too innocent look in her eyes, and decided it would be better for them all if he at least went out to check on her.

  Hawke moved the skillet and coffeepot back to a cooler part of the stove, went into the living room to get his coat, and had just slipped into it, when the door suddenly burst open and Lacey blew into the house. Her hair had indeed exploded from its bun and now fell in a thousand russet spirals across her shoulders, back, and even her face. The part of that pretty face which wasn't hidden by coppery little curlicues was streaked with dirt, and her rumpled skirt was dotted with bits of bedding straw. What the hell had she been up to?

  "Top o' the morning to you," she said, her tone lyrical, cheerful. "'Tis something to be said for rising early and putting oneself to work in the collecting of the meal. I thank you, kind sir, for allowing me the pleasure of gathering what there is of ours. Oh, and don't worry yourself none about the lantern—'tis hanging right outside the doorway here, the flame blown out."

  With a frown that was more of a playful pout, Lacey held the empty pail up for Hawke to see. "I'm afraid your stubborn Hazel was not up to giving us so much as a drop of milk this morning, but look here." She shoved the basket under Hawke's nose, beaming over the one tiny brown egg. "Your chickens were none too willing either, but see what I managed to squeeze out of that wee speckled one."

  "Squeezed—?" The conversation was so strange and Lacey seemed so pleased with herself, Hawke couldn't make heads or tails of it but he could see that the bucket was bone dry. "There's no way in hell that cow's empty—her teats have to be near to busting by now."

  Lacey shrugged. "I wouldn't know about her teats. I just know that she wouldn't give me so much as a drop of milk."

  "Well," he said, grumbling a little, "maybe you weren't rough enough with her. She is used to me, you know."

  "I suppose that could have been the problem, me new to her and all. Should I try her again?"

  "If you plan on getting fed while you're here today, you're going to have to." She started to set the egg basket on the floor, but Hawke stopped her cold. "And that's another thing; I usually get close to a dozen eggs out of those chickens each day. I don't know what in hell you were doing out in the barn for so long, but from the looks of it, I'd say you weren't taking your chores too seriously."

  "Oh, but 'twasn't that way a'tall. Let me try again, and you'll see." When he offered no immediate argument, Lacey dashed back out the door before he could change his mind, the bucket swinging from one elbow, the basket from the other.

  Hawke had every intention of following her to find out exactly what she'd been doing instead of her chores. Her method for extracting the day's supply of milk from Hazel must have been pretty feeble, and even more curious, he couldn't wait to find out what she meant by "squeezing" an egg from the speckled hen. Before he could satisfy his curiosity on either count, however, he had a little chore of his own to see to.

  Reaching inside his jacket, Hawke lifted the ledger from his deep pocket, turned it to the Lacey O'Carroll page, and moistened the tip of his pencil.

  Under the Disadvantages column, he noted:

  3. Incompetent Farm Hand.

  Then he slipped the ledger back in his jacket and headed for the barn.

  Falling is easier than rising.

  —An old Irish saying

  Chapter 4

  Hawke was watching his incompetent farm hand through a crack between the boards directly across from the milking stall, but he could hardly believe what he was seeing and hearing. Had his eyes deceived him, or had the woman just snuck up behind Hazel, edged the bucket under her swollen udder with the toe of her flimsy shoe, then backed out of the stall again? And was she now shouting at the animal? Hawke pressed his ear against the pine slats to better hear what she was saying.

  "Notice that I'm not asking you," Lacey said, parroting Hawke by speaking in her deepest, gruffest voice. "I'm here to tell you that you'll be giving me some milk, and giving it to me now you miserable creature, or I swear by the piper o' Moses, I'll be bringing a curse down on you I will!"

  Chewing her cud noisily, Hazel glanced over her shoulder, regarded the boisterous woman with contempt, then went back to nosing around in the scattered alfalfa till left in her feeder.

  Thinking a curse couldn't hurt, Lacey shook her index finger at the bovine and made good her threat. "If you don't have some milk in that bucket by the time I come back to you, may you melt like butter before a summer Sun!" Then she turned around and leveled a determined gaze on the chickens. "As for you flighty wee lasses..."

  Outside the barn, Hawke backed away from the slats in stunned surprise. What in the name of all that's holy had he turned loose on his animals? Either the Irishwoman's brains were as scarce as bird droppings in a cuckoo clock, or s
he came from such aristocratic stock, she hadn't even seen farm animals before, much less worked with them. Suddenly concerned for his chickens, who were squawking and carrying on like a fox was loose in their midst, Hawke hurried around to the front of the barn and tore through the doors.

  There he found Lacey stretched flat out on the floor, belly-side down. She'd trapped his rooster in the egg basket, and even though it was struggling mightily, she held the cock firmly in place. Then she began shouting at it in the same gruff voice she'd used on the unimpressed Hazel.

  "I'll have an egg now, my pretty wee chicken, and don't be wasting my time—out with it!"

  "Stop!" Hawke demanded, afraid she would squeeze the very life out of his only rooster. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Looking over her shoulder, Lacey blew a few spirals of hair away from her eyes, smiled at him, and said, "Collecting eggs, like I was told, sir. This one does not seem to be too willing."

  "That one," Hawke explained as he reached her and hunkered down next to the basket to check on the bird, "is my rooster—do you know what a rooster is, by any chance?"

  "Aye," she murmured, understanding. "'Tis a lad of a bird, and one that can not be making us any our breakfast." Lacey pushed herself to her knees and brushed the dirt and straw from her skirt. "Would you mind showing me how I might tell him apart from the lasses so I do not make that same mistake again?"

  "There's no need for that." Hawke stood, extended his hand, and helped Lacey to her feet. "I don't intend to let you near my chickens again. As badly as you shook them up, I'll be lucky if they lay any eggs the rest of the week."

  "Oh... oh, no." Tears sprang into her eyes, but Lacey fought to keep them inside. "I tried so hard to do it right, honest I did. Will you tell me what I've done wrong? I did get the one egg you know."

  Oh, hell—she 'wasn't going to cry, was she? Hawke hadn't been faced with a woman's tears since... well, since his mother so very long ago. He hadn't been able to help the only woman he'd ever cared about to stop the flow then, and he didn't even want to try now. But he had to do something. Feeling that spot inside him going soft again, Hawke purposefully hardened his voice when he finally answered.

  "I'm not blaming you, so don't get all blubbery on me. Where did you find that one egg you brought me?"

  Lacey sniffled and blinked her eyes. "I told you, it popped out of that wee speckled hen of yours after I set her upon the basket."

  "Popped out?" The corners of Hawke's mouth twitched. "Do you mean to tell me that you put one of my chickens in that basket, squeezed her, and she actually laid an egg for you?"

  Lacey nodded. "A course, I did not have to squeeze her much, but 'twas the only way I could think of to get me a basket full of eggs. If there be an easier way to get them out, I'd like to know what 'tis."

  Chuckling to himself for the first time in a long, long time, Hawk's normally taut lips spread into a wide grin. "There's an easier way, I expect," he said still grinning, "but it's not nearly as entertaining as yours. Come, I'll show you how to fill that basket up with eggs, and you won't even have to run after the chickens to do it."

  Speechless, not over what she'd learned here; but by what she'd seen when Hawke relaxed enough to turn loose of his frown, Lacey followed him into one of the empty stalls. When this man smiled, his eyes, his mouth, his entire face—in fact—the whole room seemed to take on a brilliant glow! Why hadn't Hawke flashed that dazzling smile her way before now? It was better than coming across a four-leaf shamrock! If only she could keep him grinning that way instead of glaring at her as if she were the devil's disciple, their life as husband and wife might just be a very pleasant thing.

  Could it be the man was not near so gruff as he appeared to be? Lacey had been taught by the nurses that to love with power was proof of a large soul; to hate was a thing in itself to be loved; and that hate was every bit as powerful as love. It stood to reason by Lacey's way of thinking, that this man who seemed so filled with hate, also had within himself the talent to love with power. Perhaps Kathleen Lacey O'Carroll merely had to find a way to coax it out of him.

  "Are you listening and watching?" Hawke demanded of Lacey, who was staring a hole through him instead of looking at the feeder and other favorite nesting areas where eggs could usually be found.

  "Oh, aye." She blushed, embarrassed to have been caught gawking at him, and glanced down to where a single egg lay peeking up through the bedding straw. "You're saying that we look for the eggs then, and not the chickens?"

  "That's the easy way." Hawke handed her the basket. "Try it and see."

  As Lacey searched the fresh clean straw for eggs, Hawke wondered why she'd been staring at him so hard, and why she looked so... so god damn wide-eyed over what she'd seen. It probably had something to do with his hair, he decided. He was long overdue for a trim, and while he usually kept his sable mane longer than "fashionable," it had grown so much over the winter, that he had to tie it back with a leather thong at the nape of his neck to keep it from blowing in his eyes and mouth. He supposed that tying his long hair back that way made him look even more like an Indian than usual, but that was just fine by him. In fact, if he let it stay just like that until the preacher showed up, it might be the final inducement for this Irish aristocrat take off for greener pastures. Maybe he'd even twist it into a couple of braids. That would probably scare her all the way back to Ireland.

  After the eggs had been collected—all nine of them—Hawke lifted a three-legged stool off its peg up high on one of the center posts, and put it in position beside Hazel. He nearly straddled it as usual, then decided he might as well give the Irish miss another lesson—and one to remember, at that.

  Cocking a finger her way, he said, "Come on over here and sit down. If you want milk for breakfast, you'll have to learn your way around a cow."

  Lacey demurred. "I—to tell you the truth, I can not imagine that I'd be any good at it. I must admit that I'm a wee bit afraid of the beast."

  Hawke should have let it go right there, should have milked Hazel and got on with the day, but for some reason, he was compelled to instruct the apprehensive woman, to find a way if he could, to help her lose that painfully innocent expression which crossed her features so frequently. Her expressive eyes showed both wonder and excitement, yet they seemed shadowed with a fear of the unknown giving her a look which reminded him of a caged bird suddenly set free. It was none of Hawke's business how she'd gotten that way in the first place, and it sure as hell wasn't his place to educate her in the ways of the world, but that soft spot inside urged him forward, and he couldn't seem to stop himself. Besides; what could it hurt to educate her where domestic barnyard animals were concerned? It wouldn't cost him anything but a little time.

  Speaking to her in a tone he reserved only for his horses, Hawke gently said, "You have nothing to fear from Hazel. She wants you to milk her because right now, she's very uncomfortable. Come, you'll see."

  His voice washed over her like a warm bath, surprising her enough that Lacey took a few steps toward the animal. "She does not know me. 'Twill upset her a wee bit, me being here, no?"

  "Not with me standing right beside you." He held out his hand. "Come on. Spread your wings and fly, little bird. You might even enjoy yourself."

  Lacey wasn't sure why he'd changed his altitude or way of speaking to her, but she vowed then and there to learn the secret. If she could keep him treating her this way in addition to smiling more often she might just be grandly happy for the rest of her life! Buoyed by the confidence his tender tones had inspired, she squared her shoulders and joined him in the stall.

  "Just do what I say," Hawke murmured softly, "and everything will be fine." He reached for her right hand, but she jerked it away and offered the left. Deferring to what he assumed was her left-handedness, he gripped the small fingers of that hand and carefully set them down on the cow's back. "Stroke Hazel's coat gently and speak to her in a kind voice. Say hello, call her by name, and let her know
you're her friend."

  Lacey gulped, but it was with as much excitement as nerves. She'd never touched a beast such as this before, unless the wee pony she had as a lass of five would be considered in the same class. Even if it were, Lacey could barely remember anything of her childhood, much less what it felt like to touch her black pony, Coco. But Hazel was here and now, warm and slightly damp to the touch. She moved her hand, noting the cow's hairs were coarse, but surprisingly soft at the same time. Losing some of her fears, she lengthened her strokes.

  "There now, Hazel lass," Lacey heard herself say as she continued to pet the animal. "I'm Kathleen Lacey O'Carroll come to ease the milk from your big swollen bag. I'll not hurt you, and would be ever so pleased if you could find it in your good graces not to hurt me back."

  Pleased and encouraged by her gentleness, Hawke took Lacey's shoulders between his big hands. "She'll be all right with you now. The milk stool is against the back of your legs. Ease down on it. I'll be right behind you." Once she'd settled onto the little chair and he'd dropped to his knees, Hawke leaned across Lacey's shoulders to guide her hands toward Hazel's teats. A forest of coppery, curls blinded him.

  "You'll have to move your hair out of the way if we're going to get this done. I can't see what I'm doing or even reach your hands through it."

  "Oh, goodness." Embarrassed to have been caught unaware of her disheveled state, and by the man she was supposed to be impressing, Lacey burst into nervous giggles. She quickly gathered what she could of her hair and dragged it over her left shoulder, sputtering as she tried to explain what had happened.