He greeted them in return while dismounting and half listened to their chatter as his gaze went to the house, wondering if anyone else might walk out to say hello.
“And then there was this woman with a black wart on her chin, she was scary!” Samuel said.
“What?” Stafford asked. “Where did you see a woman like that?” Verna Smith formed in his mind, but it would have been impossible for the woman to be out here. He’d seen her in town.
“It’s a mole, not a wart,” Terrance corrected Samuel.
Stafford could almost hear Marie explaining the difference between a mole and a wart. It would have been a teaching moment. She’d explained those to him on the ride from Huron. Teaching moments. He could think of a few of them himself.
“We saw her in town,” Terrance said.
“When were you in town?” he asked.
“We just told you,” Terrance answered. “This morning. That’s where we got the cook.”
“Cook?”
Freckle-covered faces with ear-to-ear grins nodded. Stafford was searching his mind, trying to piece things together when their faces fell. The sensation floating over his back said Marie had just closed the front door of the house. Even with the birds chirping nearby he’d heard the click.
“Ask Shorty to put Stamper up, will you?” Stafford asked, handing the reins to Terrance. A cook?
He turned, found Marie standing exactly as he’d pictured. She had a proud stance. Shoulders straight and chin up.
Outwardly she appeared unyielding, completely in control, but she couldn’t hide, not from him anyway, how nervous she was inside. The way she wrung her hands was a dead giveaway. He saw more, though, and had the urge to comfort her again, as he had last night in the bunkhouse.
Stafford slowed his approach, giving her time. Or maybe he was giving himself time.
“Hello,” she greeted him.
“Who took you to town?” The question shot out before he’d known it had formed.
“Shorty.”
“I see.” That, at least, was a relief. Her driving a wagon—full of rambunctious kids—would have been dangerous all the way around. He arrived at the bottom of the steps. “Why did you need to go to town?”
Her chin lifted another notch. “You told me to figure it out.”
Lost for a moment, he asked, “I told you to figure out how to get to town?”
“No.” Her lips pinched away the smile that had flashed for a brief moment. “You told me to figure out how to cook.”
He did recall saying something along those lines this morning when his mind had been focused on her lips. How perfectly they’d fit against his last night.
“So I did,” she said. “Figure it out, that is.”
“How’s that?”
“I hired one.”
“You hired a cook?” A blind man could do a better job of picking out a newspaper.
“Yes.”
She was adorable, standing there trying to appear all sober and stoic. He climbed the steps. The urge to kiss her was growing as strong as it had been this morning, and last night and yesterday. He’d tried that, though. Kissing her. It hadn’t gotten her out of his system. In reality, it had backfired.
And would again.
His life was about to get messy unless he put a stop to it all right now.
Chapter Ten
Marie might as well be facing down the evil-looking Mrs. Smith with the way her insides were trying to work their way outside. There was a tick in Stafford’s cheek she’d never seen before, and his usual sparkling eyes, something she’d come to take for granted, had all of a sudden turned stormy-gray again. As they’d been the first time they met.
She drew a deep breath in through her nose, hoping it would help the trembles working their way up her legs, down her arms, across her stomach.
Gertrude had held her silence on the way home, but once they’d arrived at the ranch and the children were sent outside to play, the woman had shared reservations about working at the Dakota Cattle Company. Said the ranch, and its owners, had a reputation. Folks claimed Mick Wagner and Stafford Burleson had hit it big in the gold mines of Colorado, and now, besides spending money on their ranch, they were inclined to spend their riches on gambling and loose women.
In the end, and much to Marie’s relief, Gertrude said she’d stay for the promised two weeks. Only because she couldn’t let Marie and the children live out here alone—with those men.
So many things had changed since this morning. Living out here with such men had her insides churning, but she had very few choices. The children were her first priority, and they, legally, belonged to Mick Wagner.
“I suggested you learn how to cook,” Stafford said. “I just laid out a good sum of money to replace the cabin you burned down, and now you spend more by hiring a cook?”
The lump in her throat was too large to swallow. It just sat there, throbbing as if her heart was a part of it. Some of the things Gertrude said about Stafford had seemed impossible. Now, she wondered why she’d thought that. He was acting so superior, righteous even, the way he had back in Huron. Having seen the other side of him, the one the children had taken to so readily, the one she—well, what she thought wasn’t important. The children were, though.
“I used my money,” she said pointedly.
“You have money?”
The doubt in his tone struck a chord inside her. “Yes,” she said. “I have money.”
“Enough to hire a cook?”
Skirting around the amount of money she had, Marie answered, “I wouldn’t have hired Mrs. Baker if I didn’t have enough money to do so.”
Stafford’s glare grew darker. “If you have that much money, what are you doing here? You and the kids could just stay at the hotel until Mick gets home.”
Flustered, Marie admitted, “I don’t have that much money.”
“How much do you have?”
Her insides were clenched together. Ten dollars wouldn’t provide for her and the children until next spring. Stafford was her only hope of making it through the upcoming winter that Gertrude had said could carry blizzards that left mountains of snow, trapping them all at the ranch for months.
Frustrated, Marie huffed. “I have ten dollars. Well, had ten dollars. It’ll be significantly less after I pay Mrs. Baker.”
“Less than ten dollars? How long did you hire her for? A day?”
Marie spun around, noting for the first time that the children were watching with interest, and headed toward the front door. Stafford was right on her heels, but she hadn’t expected anything less. Arguing in front of the children wasn’t acceptable, and it was obvious there would be an argument.
Stafford shut the door behind them, but not wanting Gertrude to hear, either, Marie walked across the entranceway and down the hall, all the way to the vestibule where Polly and her babies resided in their box. There she opened the back door and stepped outside again.
With a severe frown, Stafford followed.
“I’ve hired Mrs. Baker for two weeks,” Marie said, stopping near the porch railing. She might as well tell him her plan, perhaps knowing that she’d found an acceptable arrangement would change his attitude. “During that time she will not only prepare meals for the children, she will teach me how to cook.”
“Two weeks, huh?”
She spun to face him. A grave mistake. The way he stood there, looking so serious, reminded her of yesterday when he’d led her to this very spot. What had she been thinking? This is where he’d kissed her. Her stomach flipped and Marie shook her head in an attempt to clear the vision forming.
“Yes,” she answered. “Two weeks.”
“You’re paying her ten dollars for two weeks?”
“No, I’m paying her twenty-five cents
a day plus room and board.” Lifting her chin, she added, “That’s the same amount Mr. Striker paid her.”
“Striker?”
She nodded. “He owns the hotel.”
“I know who he is.” He rubbed his forehead. “You just hired his cook away from him?”
“Well, she wasn’t happy there.” Marie chose not to add Gertrude wasn’t overly happy about being here, either.
“That explains—” Stafford stopped whatever he’d been saying and moved closer. Leaning forward until his nose was very close to hers, he said, “A good cook costs more than twenty-five cents a day.”
“Plus room and board,” she whispered. His nearness had her heart trembling, but she couldn’t say it was fear. It was that unique excitement she’d felt before when he’d kissed her.
“Even with room and board.”
Marie closed her eyes, which was a big mistake. She’d thought if she couldn’t see him, she wouldn’t, well, feel him. But with her eyes closed everything was more intense. She could even feel his breathing. Not just hear, but feel each breath he took as if it was a part of her as much as a part of him, and for whatever reason, she didn’t want to open her eyes, lose that feeling.
It took great effort, but she lifted her lids and forced herself to think of the situation at hand. The children. “You won’t make her leave, will you?”
He stared at her for an extended length of time. There was a mysterious softness in his eyes, but it made her want to close her eyes again, and the urge to lean forward was terribly difficult to fight. Her breath was catching in her throat, too, making her lightheaded.
Stafford leaned back, and then, as if that wasn’t far enough, he took a step backward. “No,” he said, “I won’t make her leave.”
That’s what he did, though.
He left.
Just walked down the steps.
Marie, however, had to grab on to the railing to stay upright. Relief, most likely that he wouldn’t force Gertrude to leave, left her legs weak and wobbly.
The air gushed from her chest in a huge rush. She’d never been good at lying. Not even to herself. There wasn’t an ounce of relief in her, and what she was feeling had nothing to do with cooking or the children. She still wanted Stafford to like her. Actually, that seemed to grow more each day. Sometimes, she thought he did like her, but other times, she sensed he didn’t. It was so confusing, and she didn’t understand why it mattered to her so much.
Stafford rounded the corner of the house, and Marie’s mind turned a corner, as well. Did he think she was like the women he visited in town—the ones Gertrude told her about? Is that why he’d kissed her before? Even a nursemaid knew what type of women Gertrude had spoken about, and that alone would make most well-educated, smart, sensible nursemaids distance themselves from any man who pursued such women. That had been part of Miss Wentworth’s lessons, how to stay clear of the men who resided in the same homes as the children, employers or not. Her instructor had emphasized that the fastest way to get fired was to associate yourself with the man of the house.
Perhaps that was part of her problem. Stafford wasn’t her employer. Maybe if he was, she wouldn’t keep forgetting that part of her training.
* * *
Stafford couldn’t say he’d ever met Gertrude Baker before, but it was apparent the woman didn’t like him. It showed in the blue eyes she used to watch him like a hawk. He could barely turn a corner in the house without running into her. Fortunately he wasn’t choosing to spend much time in the house at the moment. It had only been three days since her arrival, so it wasn’t as though they’d encountered each other very many times, but considering that she, too, was living in his house, they did run into each other three times a day. Mealtimes.
Marie had outdone herself in that respect. Gertrude Baker could cook. Therefore, Stafford attempted to be on his best behavior around the woman. A part of him even felt sorry for Chris Striker. No wonder the man had been glaring at him when Stafford had ridden past the hotel the other day.
“Thank you, Mrs. Baker,” Stafford said, laying his napkin next to his plate. They were eating in the big dining room off the hallway—the one he’d never eaten in before the cook had arrived. “That was some of the best roast beef I’ve ever had.”
The children were nodding, agreeing with him as they continued to shovel food into their mouths. He’d made a point of glancing at each of them before allowing his gaze to settle on Marie at the far end of the big table.
“Thank you, Mr. Stafford. I’m glad you approve,” Mrs. Baker said as she refilled Marie’s teacup. The cook then set the teapot on the large buffet and picked up the coffeepot—both made of silver and so fancy he’d never used them before. “Would you care for more coffee? I will serve dessert in a moment. Spice cake with frosting.”
His insides melted. Spice cake. He hadn’t had that since leaving home. “Yes, I would. Thank you.”
While the woman filled his cup, his mind went back to Mississippi—a portion of his thoughts anyway. He was comparing this—a wonderful meal at a table full of people, being waited on by a servant—to his childhood. There were a lot of similarities, and as much as he’d told himself it wasn’t what he wanted, it was gratifying. As if he’d come full circle. Become the person he’d told his family he had no desire to be.
They’d scoffed at him, and over the years he’d laid out an agenda that didn’t include one thing he was looking at right now. Yet, even while convincing himself it wasn’t what he wanted, he’d swayed in that direction. The house he’d built was proof of that. Even after building the house, he’d denied he wanted it full. Claimed living alone was the life he wished for.
It was rather sobering, discovering he’d been wrong all these years. More sobering than it was knowing this wasn’t real. The house was real, the furnishings and the fancy dishes. Yet whilst the children and Marie and Mrs. Baker were real, they weren’t his. They were all Mick’s. And they were exactly what Mick had wanted. His partner had spoken of it since the day they’d met.
Mick had been raised in Texas. Not on a ranch, but in town. Austin. His father had been a doctor. When he’d died and Mick’s mother remarried, Mick had left. Said their house hadn’t been big enough for two men, but he always stopped to see his mother—and stepfather—when he went south. Mick had a couple of much younger stepbrothers and often said he wished he’d had brothers and sisters while growing up. He also said he wanted a house full of kids.
Stafford’s gaze landed on Marie again, who was waiting for Mrs. Baker to set a plate of dessert in front of her.
Hence the mail-order bride. Mick had known what he wanted, and when he hadn’t found it, he’d ordered it. Complete with kids.
Stafford had told his partner that having siblings, a big family, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, yet in that, too, perhaps he’d been wrong.
The gurgling in his stomach should have ruined his appetite, but when Mrs. Baker placed a china plate before him, holding a large slice of spice cake, he picked up his fork and all but moaned when the sugary treat hit his taste buds. It was better than he remembered. Then again, maybe his mother’s cook’s spice cake hadn’t been this good.
He ate the entire piece, savoring each bite, and then congratulated Mrs. Baker on her abilities.
“I didn’t make the cake,” Gertrude Baker said, offering the first real smile he’d seen her give. “Marie did.”
The red blush covering Marie’s cheeks revealed that the cook spoke the truth.
“My compliments, Marie,” he said. “You really must be an apt student.”
“That she is,” Mrs. Baker said as Marie’s cheeks turned a shade darker. “Not one mistake.”
Stafford couldn’t come up with a comment, not with the way his mind was twisting about. He was thinking about Ralph Peterson, and how proud the banker was of his w
ife’s cooking abilities. Stafford could relate to that. And he now had everything at his disposal to invite Ralph and his family out to the ranch.
He pushed away from the table then, and complimented the cooks one last time before taking his leave. There were always things that needed to be done at the ranch, chores and such, yet, as he paused on the front step, not a single task came to mind. It was evening, the cowboys were settled into the bunkhouse, and visiting them wasn’t the escape he needed.
As he walked down the steps his gaze settled on the burned piece of ground on the other side of the creek. He set out in that direction. There was plenty of daylight yet to stake out the footings for Mick’s new house.
A short while later Terrance joined him. “Why are you pounding those boards in the ground?” the child asked, kicking at the black clumps of dirt.
“I’m staking out where we’ll build the new house,” Stafford explained.
“Mick Wagner’s new house?”
The boy’s tone held a definite hint of disgust. “Yes, Mick’s new house,” Stafford answered. “Don’t worry. It’ll be much larger than the cabin.”
“I don’t see why we can’t just live in your house,” Terrance said, bending over to inspect a rock. “It’s even bigger than the one we had back in Chicago.”
Stafford laid down his hammer and stepped over the string he’d stretched from end stake to end stake. More than once he’d thought about the children and the changes that had happened to them. It had tugged at his chest before, but was stronger tonight. Maybe because of Terrance’s meekness, which was unusual, or maybe because he was remembering his own childhood more fondly lately. He knelt down next to the child and feigned interest in a couple of rocks near the boy’s feet. “I think you’ll like this new house. It’ll have plenty of bedrooms.”
Terrance tossed his rock away. “Just ’cause he’s our cousin shouldn’t mean we have to live with him.”
Stafford leaned back on his heels. “Who’s your cousin? Mick?”
“Yes,” Terrance said. “That’s why we’re here.”
The Wrong Cowboy Page 14