He couldn’t blame her for being skittish after what had happed with the other stove and was about to cross the room, take over making breakfast, but he stopped. He didn’t have time to cook every meal, and eventually she’d have to get over it.
Battling that thought with another one that said it wouldn’t hurt him to make breakfast this morning, Stafford glanced back to the table and all the little people sitting there as quiet and immobile as a litter of scared-stiff rabbits.
Terrance lifted his gaze, and with a solemn nod, he said, “It sure is nice of you to let us stay in your house, Stafford.”
Stafford bit the inside of his cheek, taking a guess at what was going on. She’d told the children to be on their best behavior, and they were minding. He should appreciate that. Kids should mind, he’d be the first to admit that, but this group was as grave as a houseful of inmates with armed guards standing over them. It had been years, but not so many that he didn’t remember how it felt to be on your best behavior. He’d had to do it every Sunday, when visiting his grandmother’s house. Sitting in her flower-filled parlor he’d always felt as though he’d swallowed a handful of grasshoppers. Even his toes had been jittery back then, full of energy that wanted out. It had been a cruel torture, one his mother never grasped.
Tiny clicks, in a quick clip-clop pattern sounded, and he leaned slightly to see around the table. Sure enough, Polly had heard a voice she recognized and come exploring.
He grinned and gave a tiny nod, encouraging the children to look toward the doorway.
The table practically exploded as the kids flew off their chairs, shouting the dog’s name. Marie fluttered past him, kneeling down along with the children to greet the dog, whose little brown-and-white body was wiggling with delight. Stafford was enjoying the sight, but the reunion didn’t last long.
Marie scooped up the dog, whispering, “Who let Polly in the house?”
They started answering at once, each child assuring they hadn’t and shaking their heads.
“I told you yesterday,” she started.
Stafford arrived at her side in time to interrupt and to take the dog from her arms. “I let her in the house.” Nodding to the children, he added, “Follow me.”
They did so without questions, which goaded him a bit. They’d started to speak, but Marie, in that obey-me-or-else voice had hushed them.
He led them to the box and gestured with one hand for them to view its contents. Polly wriggled in his arms, letting out little whines as they gathered close. Stafford slowly knelt, so the dog could be reassured he wouldn’t let anyone injure her pups.
Marie was the first to coo, and she didn’t scold anyone when they leaned closer, copying her behavior. After everyone had a good look at the white-and-brown pups—that in Stafford’s mind were quite homely—he set Polly in the box.
“You can’t play with them yet,” he cautioned, “but in a few weeks, they’ll be running along behind you.” There had been plenty of dogs and puppies in his childhood. Up until now he hadn’t missed them.
Of their own accord, his eyes found Marie. She’d backed away from the box. He stood, catching her subtle nod, and moved to stand alongside her. About to comment on finding Polly, Stafford frowned when she gestured toward the hallway.
His heart did a double take. She had to be excited he’d found the dog. As he followed her, his mind conjured up kissing her. Just accepting her tiny thank-you kiss.
That was before she opened her mouth.
“Mr. Burleson, dogs do not belong in the house,” she hissed.
Disappointment hit hard and fast. Especially as she licked her lips. But it was how she called him Mr. Burleson that aggravated him. Less than twelve hours ago they’d been kissing, now he was Mr. Burleson?
“It’s my house,” he said, before pointedly adding, “Marie.”
“I realize that,” she all but spat. After a deep breath, she started again. “The children—”
It was impossible not to stop her. “Are children,” he said. “And this is now their home.”
“I appreciate that, but I cannot—”
“You don’t have a say in what can and can’t happen. It’s my house. I’ll say if a dog can live in it or not, and I say Polly and her pups stay right where they are.” It was foolish to argue over such a thing, but watching her pinch those lips together was driving him crazy. “And I say kids don’t have to sit with their heads bowed and their hands in their laps.”
“What?” Her eyes snapped more sparks than the fire that burned down Mick’s house. “They have to learn—”
“Learn?” He grabbed the frame of the kitchen doorway over her head with one hand, mainly to keep it—and the other one—from shaking her. “I’ll tell you who needs to learn.” He leaned close, almost nose to nose, and had a bird’s eye view of her licking those lips again. The way she kept doing that drove him crazy. “You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” There were a dozen thoughts racing through his mind, and not one of them would be an appropriate thing to say. Therefore, he used the only piece of ammunition he could. “Those kids are sick of scrambled eggs.”
Her expression grew rather traumatized, and that didn’t feel nearly as good as he wanted it to. All he’d wanted was a little bit of gratitude for searching the ranch for a foolish dog this morning. Which, in its own right, was crazy. He hadn’t expected appreciation from anyone in years. Pushing off the wall he said, “I’d have thought someone who graduated at the top of their class could have figured that out.”
Without waiting for a response, Stafford twisted and grabbed his hat off the table by the front door on his way out of the house.
* * *
Marie attempted to catch her breath. The way Stafford had held on to the overhead doorframe had impressed on her just how tall he was, and the way he’d leaned close reminded her how sweet his lips had tasted last night, but the way he’d so arrogantly pointed out her inabilities prompted her to recall just how bigheaded he was, too.
Of course she knew the kids were tired of scrambled eggs. She was, too, but there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it. Knowing how to cook didn’t just happen. It’s not as if people were born with that skill.
She spun around, still gasping for air, and stared at the monstrous stove. Gleaming black, it looked as new as everything else in the home. Cleaning she’d learned as a child. Taking care of children she’d learned as a scholar. She was trying, but without someone to teach her, cooking...
Hurt, that stomach-sickening sensation she remembered so well, rolled dangerously inside her, threatening to boil up and consume her. That would not happen. She’d figure this out all right, and she’d show Mr. Stafford Burleson just how smart she was. Starting with never, ever, kissing him again.
Tightening her jaw, she fought the bile trying to work its way up her throat and clenched her shaking hands into fists. Her eyes settled on the stove with purpose. She could do this. And would.
It turned out the stove wasn’t as intimidating as it looked, and whether they were tired of scrambled eggs or not, the children ate them. Then they started in on the chores she assigned them. Keeping a house this size in order would take cooperation. She’d do the heavy cleaning, but dusting and seeing to the needs of Polly—the dog didn’t seem to be tired of scrambled eggs—and her pups were things the children could handle.
Marie had finished the dishes, when Beatrice, after wiping the table, asked, “Where should I put this?”
“I’ll take it,” Marie answered, noting the newspaper needed to be refolded. While doing just that, opening it to once again fold it on the creases, an advertisement caught her attention.
Cook Wanted. Twenty-five cents a day plus room and board. Striker Hotel.
Excitement had a smile tugging at her lips. If the hotel could hire a cook, why c
ouldn’t she? She still had nearly ten dollars from her savings and selling her jewelry. Spending it on a cook wasn’t in her plan, but ten dollars wasn’t enough for one return ticket to Chicago, let alone seven. If she could hire a cook, perhaps they could teach her....
Nibbling on her bottom lip, she tossed the thought about. It would take a good portion of her money, but it wouldn’t have to be for long. She was a fast learner. Two weeks would be more than enough time.
The idea grew more enticing with each thought. Cookies. The children would be so happy if she learned to make the cinnamon cookies Mrs. Garth had made back in Chicago. Hiring someone like Mrs. Garth wouldn’t work though. She hadn’t allowed anyone in her kitchen.
Still, there had to be someone in Merryville willing to take the job. Someone who wouldn’t mind sharing their skills. If she learned how to cook, maybe, just maybe, Stafford would hire her to cook for him. Not for money, but for room and board. Then he wouldn’t send her back, or the children, before Mick Wagner arrived. And once Mr. Wagner did arrive, perhaps he’d hire her and... A thrill overtook her. Convinced this would work, Marie tucked the newspaper under her arm. “Children!”
They came running. After a moment inspecting faces and hands, she announced, “We are going to town.”
“Town?” Samuel asked.
“She means Merryville,” Terrance supplied, then frowning, he asked, “How we gonna get there?”
“How are we going to get there,” she corrected him.
He nodded. “How?”
“We’ll walk.”
“That’s a long walk. Stafford says—”
“We shall walk,” Marie interrupted, gesturing toward the hall. “Wait on the front steps. I’ll be right back.” So excited she almost missed the first step, Marie dashed up the staircase.
The children were lined up on the porch when she exited the house, and Shorty was standing near the bottom step.
“Kids say you’re going to town,” he said, rubbing his chin.
“Yes, we are.”
The man shuffled from foot to foot. “You plan on coming back?”
Six pair of nervous eyes glanced up at her. “Of course,” she replied. That consideration had never entered her mind. Where else would they go? Tossing those nagging thoughts aside, she said, “There are just a few things we need.”
He nodded, and wiped a hand over his mouth. “I’ll get the wagon.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr.—Shorty.” Calling all these men by their first names was very difficult. It went against all of her formal training. “We can walk.”
“It’s a long ways, Marie,” he answered. “You wouldn’t get home until late. And how would you carry what you purchase?”
She planned on their purchase walking alongside them, but that sounded a little presumptuous.
Her silence had Shorty repeating, “I’ll get the wagon.”
Stepping around the children, she hurried down the steps and caught up with him on the grass. The small amount of time she’d held the reins while traveling from Huron couldn’t be considered training, and certainly hadn’t taught her enough to feel comfortable doing so again.
“I don’t know how to drive a wagon,” she whispered. Her insides flinched, but Shorty—unlike Stafford—seemed to understand her lack of knowledge in some areas. She’d considered asking Shorty to teach her how to cook a few things besides scrambled eggs, but she’d tasted his stew. Beggars can’t be choosers, but she wanted to know how to cook things that were a bit more edible.
He glanced toward the bunkhouse before nodding. “The boys are out checking the cattle. I’ve got time to take you to town.”
“But what will Mr.—Stafford think of that?”
Shorty shrugged. “He ain’t here. Rode out a while ago.”
Offering her newly hired employee a ride home would be more presentable than asking her to walk, so Marie nodded. “Thank you, Shorty. We appreciate that very much, and will enjoy your company.”
* * *
Ha-ha you keep her STOP I’ll get another one STOP
Stafford stared at the telegram one more time, trying to come up with a response. He’d read Mick’s reply a dozen times since it had been delivered to the ranch, shortly after he’d stormed out of his house. His house. The one that now had six kids, five dogs and one very uppity nursemaid living in it. Trouble was, none of that bothered him as much as it should.
“You want to send a telegram, Stafford?” Rex asked, pulling a stubby pencil out from behind his ear. “Or just keep reading that one?”
The air in his chest pushed its way out. Stafford waited until it was all gone, took in a supply of fresh air and then nodded. “Yeah, I want to send a reply. Same address.”
Rex set the pencil to paper and glanced up expectantly.
When the man started tapping the tip against the paper, Stafford said, “I’m thinking what I want to say.”
“That one came in late last night,” Rex said. “I just happened to catch Newly Cross, heard he was heading out your way this morning.”
Still contemplating, Stafford nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate how quickly you delivered it.”
“This one gonna be just as urgent?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know what you want to say?”
Stafford set a solid glare on the man, then cringed. It wasn’t Rex’s fault. It was Mick’s. Keep her? What kind of answer was that? Nobody in their right mind would want to keep a woman around who burns down houses, can’t cook, is— He stopped the thought short. It wasn’t Marie’s fault, either.
After cursing Mick under his breath, calling the man several names, Stafford said, “Just put, You ordered her. Now come claim her.”
Rex lifted a brow, but didn’t say a word. The man was not a gossip and would go to his grave with a large number of messages no one else would ever hear about. If Stafford didn’t believe that one hundred and fifty percent, he wouldn’t be standing where he was right now.
“You want the reply sent to the ranch?”
“No, I’ll be in town awhile. I’m riding out to the new lumber mill. I’ll stop back.”
“Good enough.” Rex carried the slip of paper to his desk and his fingers started tapping away on the telegraph key even before he lowered himself onto his short swivel stool.
Stafford left, wondering if he should have said more. Telling Mick how pretty Marie was would have helped. His partner would catch the first train heading north then. He paused on the boardwalk, contemplating reentering the telegraph office.
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Stafford pulled up a grin for the approaching banker and tucked Mick’s message in his pocket. “I decided to ride in and check out the lumber mill myself.”
“I just hung a note on the door of the bank so I could ride out there,” Ralph explained.
Glad his mind was working again, Stafford said, “Proof you need an assistant.”
Ralph laughed. “Guess so. I was going to wait until this evening, but Becca’s making fried chicken for supper and I don’t want to miss that.”
“You’re a lucky man.” Stafford’s insides did a double take. Those were not words he ever expected to leave his mouth, yet he knew they were true. The banker not only had a sweet wife—one who could cook up a storm—Ralph seemed content, satisfied with his life. Stafford doubted he’d ever felt that way.
“No one has to tell me that,” Ralph says. “I give thanks for my blessings every night.”
Stafford questioned that, too. He’d spent many Sundays in church growing up, but, couldn’t recall the last time he’d actually given thanks. Or if he ever had.
“So, how much lumber will you need?” Ralph asked.
“Not really sure,” Stafford answered. “Have
n’t given it much thought, I guess.”
“I suspect not, if the fire just happened.”
“It just happened, all right,” Stafford answered, thinking of several things.
Ralph let out a good-natured laugh. “Well, last I talked to Otis, he was considering putting together packages. Lumber precut to frame in a house along with preassembled doors and windows. He asked if the bank might consider backing him on the idea. I’m sure he’d appreciate your thoughts. As would I.”
Intrigued, Stafford tossed the notion about for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea. With the way this town is growing, it might make good business for both Otis’s lumberyard and the bank.”
“And once the railroad depot is built, it’ll only grow more.” Ralph patted him on the shoulder. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Seeing a town rise up from the ground, being a part of shaping it. That’s the reason Becca and I came west, to become a real part of this great nation.”
Stafford took a moment to ponder that. It wasn’t something he’d considered—being an integral part of the town—yet it sparked something inside him. He and Mick had built the ranch, and that had been exciting, still was, but in all honesty, the ranch was more of a self-centered goal, for themselves. The town was a community, a unit of people coming together for a common good. That appealed to him, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.
They stopped outside Ralph’s barn, and Stafford, waiting while the other man entered, took a moment to examine the banker’s house. New, as all the houses were, it wasn’t extravagant or presumptuous. Solid, though, and well built. A good home to raise a family in, to really set down roots and build a life. His house, as big and full of every modern convenience as it was, didn’t have that. Roots.
Ralph led his horse out of the barn, a big red roan, and Stafford hoisted himself into the saddle on Stamper’s back. He and the black paint had traveled a lot of miles together. He’d bought Stamper from a neighbor down in Mississippi shortly before leaving.
As they rode out of town, Ralph started talking about Otis’s house idea, and interested, Stafford answered, but in the back of his mind other things were going on. No matter how he tried to repress it, one niggling notion stuck. Maybe Mick’s idea of a wife wasn’t such a bad one. When a man set down roots, a family was usually involved.
The Wrong Cowboy Page 12