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

by Sharon Ihle

  Leaving his post, Hawke approached her. "Crowfoot doesn't do a damn thing he doesn't want to do." He almost added, "like me." "He knows he can come into the house any time he wants and on a permanent basis too, but so far, he says he's more comfortable out here. This loft is a big step up for him since he pretty well raised himself in the wild."

  She gasped. "You mean without a mother or father?"

  "Yes, but he wasn't completely alone. Crowfoot has a way with animals, wolves in particular." He hunkered down beside her and began to pick the straw out of her disheveled hair. "After his mother abandoned him at birth, a trapper and his squaw took him in. Once the woman died, the trapper kind of lost interest in him. Near as Caleb and I can figure, the kid ran wild for around three or four years before we convinced him to come and stay with us."

  "The poor lad."

  Hawke shrugged. Then without even realizing what he was doing, he worked at pinning a few of Lacey's russet spirals back in place again. "Crowfoot doesn't think of himself as someone to be pitied," he continued, even though the feel of Lacey's hair had the better part of his attention. "He loves working with animals, my horses in particular, but has also learned a lot about running a cattle ranch from Caleb. Once he gets to speaking a little better, I think he'll fit just about anywhere the whites will let him go."

  Lacey couldn't help but hear the bitter tone in Hawke's voice as he said whites, but she didn't dwell on it. There was something else which disturbed her about the boy, something she knew she couldn't ask of Crowfoot. "What of the lad's injured foot? How much longer must he wear that smelly sack about it?"

  "Again that's something he does by choice, and it's not to cover an injury, but to hide the clubfoot he was born with. He thinks if he wears that burlap bag and a boot, he looks more normal, I guess."

  Fully aware at last that he was fiddling with Lacey's hair, and that the perfume of it and feel of the silken strands sliding between his fingers were driving him to distraction, Hawke abruptly stood up.

  "I haven't tried to convince Crowfoot to wear a shoe on that foot since I think teaching him to speak better English is more important right now. You two seem to be getting along pretty good—maybe you can talk him into getting rid of that bag."

  "Aye, and I'd like to try. Do you have a boot to fit him?"

  "No, but I've offered to stitch him up a pair of custom moccasins, and the offer is still good."

  Hawke was looking at her again, thinking of something other than Crowfoot. Lacey was as sure of that as she was convinced that "something" had to do with her—and kissing. That in turn reminded her of the burgeoning feelings inside her, the strange way his look and touch made her feel.

  Forcing herself to look away from her husband, a suddenly panicked Lacey scrambled to her feet and carved an escape route for herself. "'Tis best, I think, if I go look for the poor lad now."

  Then, with no objection from her husband, Lacey fled the loft.

  * * *

  Later that evening over a supper of T-bone steaks and pan-fried potatoes and onions that Hawke had cooked at his own insistence, he felt comfortable enough with the lack of tension between himself and his wife to broach the subject which had been weighing so heavily on his mind—and elsewhere. And he was sure, after spending the day working on the problem, that he'd come up with the best solution to broaching it—directness.

  Hawke cleared his throat, then laid his knife across his fork, cavalry-sword style, and centered them on his empty supper plate. Commanding her complete attention with the business-like tone of his voice, he asked, "Have you finished eating? There's something I want to discuss with you."

  Lacey eyed the slab of steak left on her plate. "Aye, I cannot find the room for another bite, but I thank you kindly for putting such a grand meal together for me. I don't deserve it after..." Her gaze drifted over to the scorched wall above the stove.

  "Forget it," he said, even though a tear-inducing reminder, the acrid aroma of smoke, hung over the room like a great dark cloud. "I think I've been patient with you, Lacey, more than patient in fact. I also think it's about time for you and I to, ah, get to know each other a little better. In bed."

  Lacey's gaze shot back to him. "In bed, as in...?"

  Hawke nodded. "That's right. As in performing your wifely duty with me."

  "Oh, b-but... I was thinking that you did not want children."

  After pausing for a long moment, Hawke said, "I'll leave that decision up to you."

  "Well, then my decision is no. I don't want us to have children. Not now or ever."

  Hawke didn't know which surprised him the most; the fact that Lacey didn't want children, which was fine with him, or the fact that hearing those words from her sweet lips stung him so badly. This was not the answer he expected or wanted from his wife—the result, yes—but not the bluntness which carried with it the unspoken words: I don't want to bear your half-breed babies.

  From across the table, Lacey noticed that her husband's jaw was twitching in anger. Her voice barely above a whisper, she said, "I can see that you're upset with me again. Is the begetting of your children so very important to you?"

  He swallowed his anger. "No, it isn't. In fact, I've never figured on having kids."

  "Well, 'tis a good decision I've made then. Why do you look as if a banshee has come to visit? Can we not just go on as before?"

  "No," he said quickly, loudly. "We definitely will not go on as before, but you don't have to worry about turning up in a family way. I know how to prevent the begetting of babies, and I assure you that I will."

  "'Tis good to hear that," she murmured thoughtfully. "And I would suppose prevention is best done by keeping your private self just there—to yourself. True?"

  "Not true, Mrs. Winterhawke." Hawke leaned across the table, dragging his clean flannel shirt across his supper plate, but he took no notice of the mess he made of it. Then he hardened both his voice and his resolve to let her know in no uncertain terms what he expected. "A man has needs whether he's planning on making babies or not. When you married me, you vowed to fulfill those needs. It's time you did—understand?"

  "I... no, I cannot say that I do."

  Silently cursing Kate for the sloppy job she did preparing Lacey for this eventuality, and increasingly uncomfortable with the topic, Hawke tried to explain another way. "As I said before, I can prevent the begetting of children. What I can't prevent is my wanting you." He narrowed his gaze, watching for the light to dawn in her eyes, but there was no sign of comprehension. Reaching for her hand, he gentled his voice and tried yet another way to explain his need. "I want you badly, Lacey, in the way a man wants a woman, and... I want you now. Will you come upstairs to bed with me? I think I can explain the rest of this better if I show you what I want."

  "Oh, b-but, from what Kate has told me of this... this joining of men and women, well, I cannot do it. I will not. 'Tis too vile and awful a thing." She snatched her hand out of Hawke's grasp and pushed her chair away from the table. "If you care for me a'tall, you will not be asking such a ghastly thing of me again."

  "Ghastly?" Hawke could hardly believe his ears. "I think I can make the moment a lot better for you than ghastly, Irish miss; in fact, I know that I can. First you've got to give me a chance." He held out his hand. "Come upstairs with me."

  "Ne'er." Lacey folded her arms across her breasts in dogged determination.

  "But—but you have to." Hawke was losing his temper, he knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "I'm entitled to at least that much out of this marriage. God knows you haven't provided me with anything else. You can't cook, you can't sew, and you—"

  "You're forgetting the floors, sir. Have you seen how well-scrubbed they've been since I came here?"

  "I don't give a damn about the floors." By now, Hawke's face was puffed and red from his eyebrows to his throat. "And I don't give a damn about cooking and mending. But you will, by God, sleep with me."

  "I sleep with you, Mr. Winterhawke, and I
have been sleeping with you since we wed, in case you did not notice. Now I—I'll just be thanking you for not trying to do your awful bidding on me."

  "Damn it, Lacey. My needs involve more than just sleeping with you, and you know it." His voice dropped to a low growl. "And trust me when I say, the only thing awful about that need, is the fact that you've kept me at bay for so long."

  "All right. If you're pig-headed enough to feel that you must have something more out of this marriage, I'll just be giving it to you, then."

  "Well it's about time." Hawke sighed heavily. "For a minute there I thought I was going to have to toss you over my shoulder and drag you off to bed."

  "You'll not be putting a hand to me this night, Mr. Winterhawke," she warned, "or any other."

  Hawke's mouth fell open at her openly belligerent attitude, but he couldn't think of what to say or do in response.

  Her cheeks burning brightly, Lacey stood up, threw the scrap of toweling she'd used as a napkin against the tabletop, then slammed her hands to her hips. It was then Hawke heard that distinctive metallic jingle that occasionally accompanied her movements, a sound so very familiar to him, that he was sure he could identify it at last. Before he got the chance, Lacey issued a final statement, drawing all his attention back to the issue at hand.

  "As I was saying, Mr. Winterhawke; I'll be happy to tend to your needs in any way I can. Now if you'll kindly be showing me where you keep the mending, I'll just be getting to it."

  I can resist everything except temptation.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Chapter 12

  Not at all sure he could get a grip on his anger, lust, or his usual self control should he stay with Lacey after her diatribe, Hawke stormed out of the house and made his way to the back of the barn. Cursing Kate's ineptness again and Lacey for her mulish stand against fulfilling her wedding vows, he split several pine logs in an effort to work out some of his frustrations. Exhausted at last, he and Crowfoot settled on a snack of venison jerky that the boy kept stored in the barn, then Hawke made himself a bed in the straw not far from the young man's lair.

  He did all that, but didn't like any of the circumstances one damn bit—especially the fact that he'd be spending the night in the barn. But like it or not, Hawke figured that at least this way he had the opportunity to think things through in a calm, clear manner—something he couldn't seem to do when face to face with his new bride. So he looked at their impasse from every angle imaginable, including her side, and finally settled on the only theory that made any kind of sense: Lacey was afraid.

  At least he hoped to God that was the problem, fear of the unknown, and not something more terrible that he couldn't understand, much less talk to her about. Assuming that he'd guessed correctly, Hawke moved on to the next dilemma: How to ease Lacey's fears and convince her that bedding him would be the natural, pleasurable thing to do. And there he hit another brick wall, one that would put him right back in the kitchen arguing with her over whether she would or would not sleep with him the way any other wife would do without having to be begged.

  His frustrations renewed, Hawke burrowed about in the straw seeking a more conformable position, then settled back down to work on the problem. Admittedly, he didn't know much about women or marriage, but he was pretty sure that seducing this wife of his was turning out to be a lot more difficult than it should have been. Why was he having such a hard time of it? he wondered. After all, gentling untamed animals was his specialty, was it not?

  Looking at the problem in those terms—that a wild horse was not so unlike this reluctant bride of his—a glaring similarity between the two struck Hawke like a bolt of lightning. Wildness, he'd learned, came from fear and the instinctive need for self-preservation. Maybe Lacey's fears were born of the instinct to survive and not from something she found repulsive about him. Could it be that carving a path to this woman's bed wasn't so different from breaking a wild filly? Growing more and more convinced that he'd hit on Lacey's reason for denying him, Hawke pondered new ways of approaching her.

  Obviously, he wasn't much good at explaining the way things ought to be between them, so he ruled out having any more discussions about the matter. Force was out of the question, of course, no matter how long she stalled. The only thing left was to do what he did with the horses; gain her trust and employ the art of gentle persuasion. That meant learning to see the problem from her point of view, anticipating her needs and fears, and, most of all, spotting her desires and acting upon them.

  Until he could get all that figured out, Hawke knew he couldn't go back to the house. Not with the way his blood boiled every time he saw Lacey, touched her, or caught the irresistible aroma of her hair. He didn't dare.

  * * *

  Lacey tucked her lucky spurs under her pillow that night, afraid to let them out of her sight. If she ever needed the luck and courage the little silver shamrocks provided, she figured she needed it now more than ever. Hawke was beyond angry with her, she knew that much just by looking at him. What she didn't know was to what extremes his anger might take him. She hadn't fared any better with Crowfoot when she tried to talk him into removing the sack from his foot. He'd grown sullen and moody, then darted off into the thick pine forest behind the ranch. By day's end, she felt alone, unwanted, and out of place.

  The following morning things didn't start out much better. Lacey whiled away the hours waiting for Hawke to come back to the house, but he still hadn't shown up by noon for a meal or even for a cup of coffee. Early in the day, she thought she heard him out on the back porch, but when she'd opened the door, he was gone. He'd left the day's supply of milk and eggs there on the porch, but never returned for breakfast. Lacey supposed she should have gone after her husband then and asked him when he wanted to eat, but after the row they'd had last night and the fact that he never came to bed, she was afraid of his rebuke. And she most certainly had one coming.

  Above all else, Lacey knew she'd been awfully free with her tongue last night in her quest to remain unsullied—in fact, she'd never in all her years talked to anyone the way she'd snapped at Hawke. But then no one else had asked her to perform this wifely duty thing before either. And she was afraid of all that might entail; she was so very afraid.

  Later that afternoon, Lacey sat in the chair near the fireplace and struggled mightily to sew up a long tear along the sleeve of one of her husband's flannel shirts. Lord, how she hated this mending business, but she knew she had to do at least this much and cook for him too if she expected to get out of performing that other chore. After jabbing the needle back through the thick cloth and pricking her already tender fingertip again, Lacey hunched over her lap, glaring fiercely at the tangle of knots in the long black thread, and renewed her assault on the tear. Then she heard the front door bang against the inside wall of the house.

  Startled, Lacey glanced up to see Hawke standing in the doorway, his large frame silhouetted by the explosion of sunlight behind him. Her heart lurched at the unexpected sight of her husband, then nearly quit beating altogether. Hawke didn't say a word at first, but just stood there, his feet spread, his expression full of purpose.

  He was wearing his buckskins, she noticed, the shirt gaped open to his navel. That made it easy for Lacey to spot the sharply defined ridges of Hawke's smooth, muscled chest as well as the faint sheen of perspiration clinging to his cinnamon skin. If that wasn't enough to give her pause, his long hair had come free of its thong, and now hung loose around his broad shoulders. Between the way he was dressed and his entire manner, she suddenly had the feeling that something had entered the room with him, a palatable sense of urgency... or danger. Alarmed by the idea, but somehow excited by it as well, Lacey drew in a sharp breath, then shivered from head to toe.

  Although he was pleased by his wife's open fascination with him, Hawke remained tight-lipped and serious, but not harsh as he finally said, "Afternoon. Sewing are you?"

  "O-oh, ah, aye, that I am. One of your shirts I found with a big tear in i
t, in fact."

  Hawke stepped into the room. "Can you put it aside for a while? Crowfoot's gone down to Three Elk to visit Caleb for a few days and meet the other Irish bride. I could use some help in the barn, if you don't mind."

  "Oh, aye." Even if he'd suggested she bake a pie, she'd have tried it just to get out of the mending! "I'll come with you right away."

  After she snipped the thread and tied the ends together, Lacey stored the needle and scissors in the cigar box on the table, then rose and tossed the shirt toward the chair. The flannel material touched down on the pine seat but then sprang back at her in the next instant instead. Puzzled, Lacey gave the shirt a good yank and tossed it again, but this time her navy skirt went along with it, and she finally saw the reason why. Somehow, she'd managed to sew her husband's flannel shirt to her own clothes.

  Hawke struggled to keep a serious expression as Lacey raised her gaze to meet his, exposing her crimson features. Between the odd mating she'd done with their clothing, and her horrified expression, he almost lost the battle with his composure, but he couldn't laugh at her now. Not after coming up with the perfect plan at last.

  Trying to diffuse the situation as quickly as possible, Hawke strode over to the cigar box, removed the scissors from it, then dropped to one knee and snipped the threads which held the two items of clothing together. "There," he said. "No harm done."

  "I—I ne'er tried to sew before, y-you know," she muttered, her tongue tripping over her teeth. "I told you that once, and also that I'm willing to learn how—"

  "It doesn't matter," he interrupted, in too much of a hurry to discuss mending or her plans to become a better seamstress. "I was just going to use that shirt for rags anyway. Will you come with me to the barn now? That's where I really do need your help."