Chapter Six
After the last bucket of water was thrown and the smoke had cleared, there was nothing left of Mick Wagner’s cabin but ashes and a still-smoking black stove missing one side. Standing beside the charred ruins, Marie wanted to run over and start pounding on that stove. It had become her worst enemy. The inanimate object had taken on an evil personality, fighting her every time she had to build a fire in its belly. If it wasn’t filling the cabin with black smoke—open damper or not—it was smothering flames as fast as she could strike matches.
This morning, after fighting it for more than an hour, she’d filled it with straw, determined to win. There was no explanation for what happened. An explosion of sorts inside the stove had knocked the door wide open and spewed flaming bits of straw into the air.
She’d grabbed the water bucket and thrown it at the stove, and that’s when one entire side of the stove had flown across the room. Screaming, she’d run for help, but it was too late. By the time the men rushed over the bridge, the entire cabin was in flames.
The desire to throttle the stove left her, or maybe she was just completely depleted. When her knees wanted to give out, she let them, sinking slowly to the ground. She’d failed. Her dream of having a family, a home that was hers, had gone up in smoke. She’d be sent back, just as before, but this time was worse. The children would be returned, too.
She heard Shorty shout for Stafford, and her stomach filled with knots.
“The kids are just fine,” Shorty said, patting her shoulder. “I took them to Stafford’s house and told them to stay there.”
“I know.” She’d watched as the old man ushered them all over the bridge to the big white house while the other men fetched buckets of water. “Thank you.”
“It was bound to happen,” Shorty continued. “That stove’s been a pain ever since Mick hauled it home.”
In his own gruff way, he was attempting to make her feel better, but instead, tears started to drip from her eyes. A rarity. It had been so long since she’d cried, Marie had forgotten what it felt like. Her throat started to burn and her temples pounded. She’d sworn this would never happen again. The pain of being rejected, of being returned to the orphanage, not once but twice, rushed forward. She closed her eyes, swallowed a sob and tried to fight the memories.
Quietly, Stafford arrived at her side, and Shorty wandered back toward the smoldering ruins.
“Come on,” Stafford said softly.
Shaking her head, she refused to budge. “You can’t send them back.”
“Send who back?” he asked.
“The children. You can’t—”
“The children,” he said, taking her arms gently but firmly, “will want to know you’re all right.”
With his strength pulling her up, Marie had no choice but to stand, but her feet didn’t want to move and she stumbled.
Stafford grasped both of her hands, examining them thoroughly. “Did you get burned?”
“No.” More tears were threatening to start falling. He’d come to her rescue again, been the first to arrive, and that filled her with raw frustration. She’d tried so hard. Wanted him to see how capable she was, how needed—more so than ever before—and now... Oh, that stupid, stupid stove. Everything else she’d managed to make work, but he wasn’t going to see that. No one would. Not with Mick Wagner’s cabin in cinders.
Stafford’s hands gently cupped her cheeks. She tried not to look up, but when his thumbs wiped away her tears, she had to, and had to blink at what she saw. He should be furious with her, shouting and saying I told you so, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was looking at her as if she was fragile and might break at any moment. He had no idea how close she was to that. Breaking.
“Please don’t send us back to Chicago,” she whispered.
He frowned slightly, and then wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her against his side as he started walking. “No one’s going anywhere,” he said, “other than you going to my house to check on the children.”
The sensation that washed over her was new, one she couldn’t explain, yet inside she believed him. That he wouldn’t send her back. “I don’t know what happened,” she said.
“The stove got too hot,” he said. “When cold water hits hot cast it can make it crack, and it’s not unusual for a seam to give way.”
She’d seen men be kind before. John Meeker had always been cordial, and some along the trip had been helpful, but no man had ever been this understanding, not to her, and that had odd things happening inside her. Just as when he’d saved her from the snake. Though she’d been mortified, she’d also been in awe. He was so strong, so masculine, and deep down, she really wanted him to like her. She’d never, ever, wanted that before. A man to like her.
She sniffled and he squeezed her shoulder.
“Doing better?” he asked.
“You’re being awfully nice about this.” She hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
* * *
Stafford knew his behavior was surprising her. It was a bit astonishing to him, too. Mick’s cabin being burned to the ground didn’t bother him as much as it should, and knowing she and the children now had to live with him wasn’t a worry, either. All of them living in that cabin, with only one bed had been.
For the past several days he’d tried to come up with a reason to make them move into his house, but Marie, in her own stubborn way, had made the best of the situation and there wasn’t anything he could use as an excuse. Not one she’d have accepted.
Watching from the other side of the river had been worse than sitting next to her on the wagon seat, but moments ago, when she asked him not to send her back to Chicago, his heart had flipped in a way it never had.
They crossed the bridge, and while walking up the steeper slope that led to his house and barns she said, “I think it would be better if you yelled at me.”
The urge to kiss her had hit new heights a short time ago and the way those big, luminous brown eyes were looking at him right now was making it all but impossible. “Why?”
She shrugged. “Then I’d know how you feel.”
He felt, all right. Things he shouldn’t be feeling for her. As though if he didn’t kiss her soon, he might explode, about like that stove had.
Maybe that was exactly what he needed to do. Just get it over with. Release all this pent-up tension inside him.
He led her up the hill and around to the back side of his house. There he stopped, twisted her so she faced him, and cupped both of her cheeks. One kiss was all it would take. That would get her out of his system, let him think about other things and prove he truly had no feelings for her.
“Are you going to yell at me now?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why not? You told me not to burn down the cabin.”
“It was an accident,” he said. “Accidents happen.” He tilted her head back slightly. “As long as everyone’s all right, nothing else really matters.”
“You aren’t going to send us away?”
“No.”
She was watching him closely, and he waited, biding his time until she sensed what was about to happen. Her eyes widened, and she swallowed, but she didn’t try to pull away as he half expected. He’d kissed one woman before who hadn’t wanted him to—Francine, after she’d told him about Sterling—and he’d sworn he’d never do that again.
“I’m going to kiss you, instead,” he declared quietly.
Eyes wider, she asked, “You are?”
He nodded, grinned.
“Why?” she asked, biting her lips.
“Because I want to.”
“You do?”
This type of buildup wasn’t something he’d done before, but he found the excitement growing inside him refreshing. He answered her with a slow nod.
“When?” Her whisper was almost breathless and quite intoxicating.
“As soon as you stop talking.”
“Oh.”
The sparkle in her eyes was so amazing he had a hard time blinking. He dipped his head, watching her slightest movement, which was little more than her lashes lowering. When his lips brushed hers, she let out a little gasp. He held her face and pressed his mouth completely against hers, absorbing the warm moisture of her lips for a moment before pulling back and then kissing her again, longer and with more intent.
That kiss led to another and another.
Stafford attempted to pause, just let their lips rest upon each other. It usually didn’t take long for his desire to evaporate, but that wasn’t happening this time. If anything, new cravings were coming to life and kept his lips moving over hers. Hard and fast, and soft and slow.
The kissing continued, winding him tighter than a spring. Stafford knew he had to stop, but doing so was another story.
For the life of her, Marie couldn’t make her lips stop. They just kept following Stafford’s. Kissing him. Her heart was racing, too, and her hands were pressed against his hard chest. It was all more wonderful than she ever could have imagined.
She’d never kissed a man before, but recently she’d thought about it. A lot. Even dreamed about it, and would wake up sweating and gasping for air. It had been Stafford she’d been kissing in her dream, just like now.
Lately, she’d found herself thinking more and more about Emma Lou and John Meeker, too. How they’d smiled at each other, as if talking to each other secretly, and how they’d kissed before he left each morning. John had usually kissed Emma Lou’s cheek, but one day Marie had seen them kissing on the lips. The way she and Stafford were doing. She’d been embarrassed that morning and had rushed the children back into the dining room, but she wasn’t embarrassed right now. Not at all. She wanted to go on kissing Stafford for hours on end.
At first, when his mouth had touched hers, she’d been startled, had no idea what to do, but her lips had. Still did. They kept moving beneath his in ways that had her insides dancing with ecstasy.
No wonder Miss Wentworth had been so strict in her instructions about staying away from men. Kissing Stafford was amazing. Wonderful. Spectacular.
Her stomach, full of enchanting flutters, dropped. What was she doing? Kissing a man was the fastest way to get fired. No, she didn’t work for him, but she did depend on him for everything, at least until Mick Wagner returned.
Marie pushed against Stafford’s chest, stumbling backward, and before he could speak, she spun around and raced up the back porch steps. Gasping for air, she wrenched open the door and slammed it shut behind her.
* * *
Stafford cursed. One kiss was all it had taken in the past to remind him he didn’t want a woman, didn’t want to care about anyone the way he had about Francine, and he wasn’t happy that he didn’t feel that way this time.
He should send Marie back to Chicago, but unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. However, the way he’d just attacked her, she might leave all on her own. Spinning around, he made his way back toward the destroyed cabin. There, along with Red Scott and Mike Jones, two ranch hands, he used a shovel to make sure no embers lay hidden, waiting to burst into flames. He also tried not to think of kissing Marie. Actually, he was trying to justify kissing her. Which wasn’t happening. He was no better than Sterling.
“Looks like Mick’s bride is gonna have to live in your house,” Red said. “Then again, she ain’t Mick’s bride, yet, is she?” the man added with a laugh.
Stafford let his glare speak for itself. Red caught it fast enough and shoveled his way to the far end of the charred ground without another word.
No one had to tell him Marie wasn’t Mick’s bride yet. That fact was circling his head like a flock of buzzards over a dead cow. Mick was his best friend, had been for years, and coveting his bride was more than wrong. It was disloyal and disgusting, and something Stafford never imagined doing. It also was something he would not do.
Anger flared inside him and Stafford kicked a beam, made it fall among the ashes. Mick should be here, or at least have sent word he was on his way. Stafford had wired him almost two weeks ago.
“Looks pretty good to me, boss,” Shorty said, kicking his way along the edge of the burned area. “I’d say it’s all out.” The old man pulled a hanky from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. “Darn stove. I told you Marie and those kids shouldn’t be living here. She and those babies didn’t have enough room to turn around in that cabin.”
“Good thing all their stuff was in the bunkhouse.” Mike, a young cowboy Stafford had hired in Texas last spring stopped next to Shorty. “They’ve only been sleeping in the cabin.”
Stafford wasn’t surprised everyone knew Marie and the children’s comings and goings, the ranch wasn’t that large, but it irritated him to know others had kept such a close eye on them. It shouldn’t. Mick would expect everyone to keep an eye on his bride. Maybe that was more where his irritation festered.
“Haul their belongings up to my place,” he told Mike while walking over to hand his shovel to Shorty.
“Where you going?” Shorty asked.
“Same place I was going before the fire happened,” he said. “To Merryville.” There was a woman he’d visited at a saloon a time or two. Maybe that’s what he needed. It sure couldn’t hurt.
* * *
Marie had no idea how long she’d been standing just inside the door, trying to gather her wits. Stafford was sure to send her away now. If by some odd chance he didn’t, Mick Wagner would. She’d have to beg Miss Wentworth for another position, which would cost her another seven years of servitude. Her small savings wouldn’t give her any other choice. She’d just put herself back in the place she’d worked so hard to get out of.
She pressed a hand to her lips. How could something so wonderful be so terrible at the same time?
Voices, those of the children, had her pushing off the door. Here she was, thinking about herself again instead of her charges. Kissing men. Burning down cabins. She deserved to be sent back to Chicago.
The long hallway boasting rooms off both sides ended in an open area where the front doors, two of them, side by side with beveled glass and flanked by windows, took up a large portion of the wall.
“Marie, there’s a piano here,” Charlotte exclaimed through an arched doorway on the right. “I’ve missed the one we had so much.”
The piano was in the far corner of the room. Potted plants sat on pretty stands near the curtain-covered windows and a fireplace made of stone took up one entire wall—the back one where a staircase in the corner led upward. While filling in for other nursemaids, she’d been in some large and lavish homes, but this one was different. It was big and fully furnished, yet the knotty pine walls, or maybe the way it was built, with archways instead of doors, made it feel open, friendly and, well, comfortable. Or maybe she was just noting everything because she didn’t want to leave.
“Shorty told us to stay right here,” Samuel said.
“We didn’t touch anything,” Beatrice added.
“Did they get the fire out?” Terrance asked.
Marie swallowed her worries and moved farther into the room. “Yes, the fire is out.” Nodding toward Charlotte, she answered, “I see the piano.” Turning to Samuel and Beatrice she added, “Thank you for minding so well.”
“How bad was the fire? Did it hurt the cabin?” Terrance asked, climbing off the long sofa he sat upon with the twins and Samuel.
She couldn’t make light of it, they’d soon see the entire cabin was gone. “Yes, it hurt the cabin,” she said, stopping to lay a hand on his shoulder. “It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
Nodding, she repeated what Stafford had said, “But no one was
hurt. That’s the important thing.”
“Where are we going to live now?” Charlotte asked.
Marie held her breath, hoping an answer would form. It didn’t. Not a definitive one. “Well, all of our belongings are in the bunkhouse.” She tried to sound excited. “We could make that our home.”
“But there aren’t any beds or a stove,” Samuel said.
“I know, but—”
“Stafford will let us live here,” Terrance interrupted. “I know he will.”
The children all jumped to their feet, talking at once, asking if they could live here, with Stafford.
“I can give you a tour,” Terrance said. “Samuel, too. Stafford showed us everything in the house.”
“Uh-huh,” Samuel agreed. “There’s even a water closet.”
“There is,” Terrance assured. “Just like what Mama wanted Papa to build in our house in Chicago.”
The room grew quiet then, and Marie’s insides jolted. The fire had to have the children thinking of their parents. Their sadness was not something she could stand, so she forced excitement to ripple her voice. “A water closet? Oh, yes, you must show us that.”
It worked, grins replaced frowns.
“This way.” Terrance waved an arm. “It’s down the hall, next to the vestibule. That’s a room that leads to another room. Stafford says when he’s full of mud from working cows, he comes in the vestibule first and takes off all his muddy clothes so the rest of the house doesn’t get dirty.”
Marie’s mind flashed to the cabin and the muddy footprints it had taken her two days and five buckets of water to get rid of, but her eyes stayed focused on the hopeful faces gazing up at her. “That’s what a vestibule is, and it’s a very good idea,” she told Terrance, encouraging the others to follow him out of the room.
After the water closet, which was even finer than the one she’d seen in a home where she’d worked for two days, Terrance and Samuel led the way as they roamed from room to room. All the way to the top floor, which consisted of one large room with windows that looked out in all directions.
The Wrong Cowboy Page 9