The Reverend and Verna took the end chairs flanking the table. Stafford made his way to the stone fireplace and leaned a hand on the mantel he’d carved himself. There was a vase of flowers sitting upon it—an addition that hadn’t been there before.
“You certainly have a lovely home, Mr. Burleson,” Hilda Kramer said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Kramer,” he said. Then recalling their reason for visiting, he added, “Mick’s will be just as large, once it’s completed. Plenty of room for all of the children.”
The tension in the room grew noticeably thicker, and he couldn’t help but glance over to see how that was affecting Marie. She’d pulled out the piano bench, but hadn’t sat yet, as if unsure what to do. So was he. The longing to step closer, just to offer his support, was hard to contain.
After clearing his throat, the Reverend said, “We are glad to see Mrs. Baker lives here, but that’s not the only reason we are here, Mr. Burleson.”
Stafford gave a single nod, though he had no idea what the other issues truly were. The first one hadn’t been an issue to him, either, and in his mind, it shouldn’t be to anyone else.
“Miss Hall has no claim to the Meeker children,” Verna Smith spouted. “They should not be here at all.” Waving a hand toward the three other women, she continued, “Mrs. Kramer, Mrs. Johansson, and Mrs. Waters have all agreed to take the children in.”
Marie’s legs would no longer hold her up and she collapsed onto the padded bench behind her. This was just as it had been in Chicago, people coming to take the children away. It was all she could do to breathe, yet at the same time, a fierce determination arose inside her. She’d fought then, and she’d fight now.
“The children,” Stafford said as sternly as she’d ever heard him, “do not need any one to take them in. They have a home right here.”
“But they do, Mr. Burleson,” Mrs. Smith insisted with a nasty sneer. “They do not belong to you, either.”
Marie had finally found her wits, now she had to make her voice work. “I—” She coughed slightly to chase away the trembling of her vocal chords. “I have an affidavit from the Meekers’ solicitor in Chicago, stating I have permission to oversee the children’s journey to be joined with their cousin.”
The glare from Verna Smith’s beady black eyes stung as sharply as any nasty hornet could have. “Mr. Wagner isn’t here,” the woman said. “And since you are no longer journeying, your affidavit is no longer valid.” Smoothing her black skirt over her knees as she sat stiffer in the chair, she demanded, “It is now the community’s duty to see to the children’s welfare. Call the children so these women can choose the ones they want.”
A scuffling sound came from the staircase behind her at the same time a ball of fury ignited in Marie’s stomach. “I will not,” she exclaimed, coming to her feet. “Those children will not leave this house, or my care.”
Verna Smith stood and placed both hands on her hips. Glaring down her elongated nose, she proclaimed, “You are little more than a child yourself, and don’t have anything to say in this situation. It’s out of your hands.”
Stafford had moved forward to stand beside her, and Marie noted the way his nostrils flared. His anger shouldn’t please her, but in this situation, it did. He was an ally, and she couldn’t help but look to him for support.
“I,” he said directly to Mrs. Smith, “have legal authority to oversee any dealings concerning Mick Wagner’s property in his absence. In this situation, that includes the children, and I say they aren’t going anywhere.”
Chapter Twelve
The battle back in Chicago had been a difficult one, but looking back, it had been a simple task compared to the one Mrs. Smith was merciless in creating. Marie had attempted to make the woman, as well as the others, see how uprooting the children yet again would be sinful, but that had backfired. Verna Smith had insisted what was happening—the children living at Stafford’s—was sinful. Corrupt, she’d called it, and immoral. Marie had insisted Stafford had been nothing but a perfect gentleman during their stay, but that hadn’t helped. Nor had Gertrude’s offering of cake and coffee stopped the other woman from spouting accusations.
Relentless, that’s what Mrs. Smith was. Marie was just as determined to keep the children, but the woman’s accusations, how she kept insinuating there were less than proper activities happening—Marie would have had to have been blind and deaf not to understand exactly what the woman was alleging—were draining. She was close to tears. Not because of the woman’s fabrications, but because she’d never truly feared losing the children before. Not like this.
Stafford had turned uncommonly quiet, and that, too, hurt. Marie didn’t expect him to completely deny everything the woman said—for they had kissed—but she couldn’t fathom why he let the woman prattle on.
The others were quiet, too. The three women were drinking their coffee, having already devoured the cake, and the Reverend had found a particular spot on the floor he kept his gaze on. Even Gertrude remained silent.
Marie, though, wasn’t about to back down. “You can spread all the rumors you want, it’s obvious nothing will stop you, but know nothing will stop me from keeping those children together.” She’d never directly challenged someone, and doing so had her insides shaking. “Now,” she continued, willing herself to sound calm, “if you really believe I’ve done something illegal, I suggest you request a lawman to investigate the situation. I’ll gladly share how you held the letter I mailed Mr. Wagner for weeks, as well as how you read it and resealed it, hoping no one would notice.”
Verna Smith turned as red as a freshly shined apple, and Marie flinched, half expecting the woman to take a swing at her.
Stafford stepped between the two of them. “I completely agree with that suggestion,” he said. “Find the territory marshal, Mrs. Smith, and have him investigate who has rights to the Meeker children.” Stafford turned to the other women. “If you ladies are finished with your coffee and cake, I’ll show you to the door.”
The three women jumped to their feet, as did the Reverend. “Yes, yes,” the man said. “I do believe it is time for us to leave.” He nodded accordingly. “Thank you for the coffee and cake. It was very delicious, and I hope to see all of you in church on Sunday.”
“We’ll be there,” Gertrude replied, eagerly waving a hand toward the door.
Marie hadn’t moved. Neither had Mrs. Smith. They were still in a stare down, though they both had leaned slightly, to see around Stafford’s broad shoulders.
“This isn’t over,” Mrs. Smith hissed.
“It most certainly is not,” Marie answered. Now that Stafford had intervened, proved he was on her side, the fight inside her had increased. She was ready to go in fists flying, as she had in the backyard of the orphanage when the kids teased her for being returned twice. A returnee they’d called her. Stepping up beside Stafford, she leveled a hate-filled glare at the other woman. “No one will separate those children. Especially not some crotchety old woman who does nothing but spread lies.”
“Why you little—”
“Mrs. Smith!” the Reverend interrupted.
Stafford had grabbed Marie by the waist and was towing her backward. She struggled against his hold, mainly to hold her glare on the other woman. “Do you hear me, Mrs. Smith?”
“She hears you all right,” Stafford said. “So does everyone else.”
Marie shoved at his shoulder, attempting to see around it as the Reverend led Mrs. Smith from the room by one arm.
“Calm down,” Stafford said.
Marie glanced up, barely able to see past the fury inside her. “What are you grinning about?” she asked. “This is not a laughing matter.”
“I know that.” He let go of her waist and took hold of both shoulders. “Stay here while I go see to our guests’ departure.”
“Gue
sts,” she huffed, trying to ignore the tingling at her waist and now her shoulders where the heat of his hands had her blood pooling. “If those are guests, I’d hate to see what intruders look like.”
He grinned again, which only made her insides flip. “Just stay here.”
Marie spun around, no longer able to fight the sensations looking upon him created. Focusing on the piano, she took several deep breaths, but it didn’t help. Rage pounded in her blood at Mrs. Smith’s accusations, and a different type of frenzy had her skin throbbing where Stafford’s hands had been. When it was apparent she was too upset to stand still, she paced up and down. The desire to march outside and grab Mrs. Smith by her coiled black hair held strong, yet she knew she couldn’t do that. This wasn’t the orphanage, and even if it was, fighting had never solved anything. She’d been known as a returnee until she’d left the orphanage for Miss Wentworth’s boarding school. There she’d put all her focus into becoming what someone would want. The best nursemaid ever. She’d become that, and no old biddy was going to take her children away from her.
The pent-up energy had her hands shaking as Marie began to gather the cups and plates left on the table.
“I’ll do that,” Gertrude said, bustling into the room. “The mood you’re in, you’ll break every one of them.”
She was right. Her inability to channel the frustration inside her had the china clattering in her hands. Marie set the things she’d gathered back on the table. “I’m not leaving, and neither are the children.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Gertrude said. She chuckled then. “I knew you had it in you, but I didn’t expect it to come out so fiery.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You silenced the room when you started in on how distressing separating the children would be after all they’ve been through.”
Marie couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said, but she knew that was right. “It would be, and I will not let it happen.”
Gertrude held up one hand. “I know that, and I agree with you.” She skirted around the table and took Marie’s arm. “Go outside. Hoe the garden, get rid of all those bad things inside, then you’ll be able to think straight.”
Marie wanted to say she didn’t know how to hoe the garden, but it really didn’t matter. A few moments alone might help. Mrs. Smith had been so vehement, far worse than anyone she’d encountered in Chicago.
“I’ll see to the children,” Gertrude said. “Go.”
Once outside, Marie made her way across the backyard to the fenced-in garden. A hoe was balanced against the gate, from when Gertrude had inspected the area. The woman had been overjoyed by the garden, and Marie had once again realized her lack of knowledge when it came to managing a household. Her abilities to manage children had been sorely tested, too, ever since Emma Lou and John Meeker had died. As she picked up the hoe, she wondered again if she’d been wrong in bringing the children west. What if the future turned out to be as complicated and difficult as the past few months had been? Could she handle it? Would everyone have been better off if she’d let the children go with the families in Chicago?
Entering the garden, she began turning the soil with the hoe. No, they wouldn’t have been better off. She’d seen kids separated from their siblings, heard them cry themselves to sleep at night. Maybe she was the part that didn’t fit in. Mrs. Smith seemed to be the most disturbed by her, and the fact she was living at Stafford’s house.
Anger flared in her stomach again, followed by a touch of shame. If Stafford hadn’t stopped her, she might have attacked the woman. It had been years since she’d resorted to such acts.
“Have you ever hoed a garden before?”
Marie spun around, and the pitching of her stomach had her planting the sharp edge of the tool in the ground. She was mad at him, too.
“No,” she snapped.
“It shows.” Stafford pushed open the gate. “You just dug up a row of potatoes.”
“That wasn’t a row,” she explained. “They were little hills.”
“That’s how you plant potatoes. In mounds.”
An overwhelming hollowness filled her. “Well, I guess that proves it, doesn’t it?” She released the hoe handle, letting the tool fall to the ground. “I don’t belong here.”
“In the garden?” he asked, picking up the hoe and carrying it to the fence.
“Yes. No.” She walked to the gate. Not belonging wasn’t new, she’d felt it most of her life. Living with the Meekers, before Emma Lou and her husband had died, had been the first time she truly felt she belonged somewhere—an integral part of a family—but none of this should ever have been based on what she wanted. Turning, her gaze went from Stafford’s house, to the trees lining the creek that wound around the backyard and the garden. She couldn’t see the barns or Mick’s place from here, but really didn’t need to. Sighing, she said, “Here in general.”
“Well, you can’t leave now.” Stafford shut the gate and hooked a wire around the pole next to it.
She pulled her eyes away before he turned, not wanting to be caught staring. He was so tall and broad and handsome, and she’d truly wanted him to stand up for her with Mrs. Smith. Another reason she shouldn’t be here. “Yes, I can. I can leave whenever I want.” It was a lie. She didn’t have enough money to get back to Chicago.
“And let Mrs. Smith win?”
Fury bubbled inside her all over again. “As if you’d care. You didn’t even try to stop her from spouting lies.”
He lifted a brow. Just one, and along with his slanted grin, it made her insides flip.
“I didn’t have to,” he said. “You were doing a good job of it yourself. Putting Verna in her place. If I’d stepped in, she wouldn’t have understood just who she was going up against.”
Marie didn’t completely understand what he meant, and didn’t take the time to try. She already knew why he hadn’t stopped the other woman. “You never wanted us here.”
“Maybe not in the beginning.” He lifted a hand and softly ran a knuckle over her left cheekbone. The touch was as soft as a feather and had her holding her breath. “But I do now.”
Her eyes smarted. “You do?”
“Yes, I do. And I was very proud of you. The way you stood up to her. The way you stood up for the children. She now knows you aren’t afraid of her, and that you won’t back down. That she may have just met her match.”
Warmth was pooling in her stomach, spreading through her veins. Not sure what was happening, she shook her head. “Y-you were proud of me?”
“Very.”
His whisper locked the air in her lungs. A transformation was taking place. Not just inside her, but between them. She’d sensed it before, both times he’d kissed her, but hadn’t explored it or tried to understand why. This time she would. Had to. Stafford had to like her in order to be proud of her. Didn’t he? “Why? Why would you be proud of me?”
Stafford had never fought the things he was fighting right now, but a piece of that battle included pulling her against him, kissing her. The confusion on her face mirrored his own. “How could I not be proud of you?” he asked, voicing his own bewilderment. “From the moment I met you, you’ve been full of determination. Thinking of no one but the children. You’ve taken on things unimaginable to others. Bringing the kids out here, a place completely foreign to you.” As he spoke, something inside him, as foreign as the ranch was to her, was opening. He shook his head at the disbelief he couldn’t quite grasp. “Living in the cabin, learning how to cook. Hiring Mrs. Baker. You haven’t let anything stop you.”
“I haven’t had a choice.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Marie. You could have walked away. The day the Meekers died, you could have walked away.”
“No,” she said softly. “I couldn’t. The children needed me. They didn’t have anyo
ne else.”
At that moment it dawned on him, something he’d never expected to happen. He’d fallen in love with her. Stafford took a step back, needing a moment to process that. His first instinct was to deny it. She’d irritated him, more than once, yet even then, she’d been endearing, and he’d kept coming back for more. In the past, when someone annoyed him, he’d simply stayed clear of them. That hadn’t been possible this time. Even that first day, he’d been ready to go back for more. Had been thrilled by the idea of goading her by taking a bath, getting a shave, having his hair cut.
“That’s not completely true.”
Her whisper had him pulling his gaze off the fencepost he’d used as a focal point while examining his internal revelations. The tear on her cheek had more things coming to the surface inside him. He reached up and gently wiped it away. “What’s not true?”
“The children didn’t need me.” She sniffed and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. “Not as much as I needed them. I’d never had a family before, and I wasn’t ready to give it up.” She shook her head. “That was completely selfish.”
Stafford framed her face, combing his fingers into her hair as he lifted her face to look at him. The tears pooled in the bottom of her luminescent eyes, her puckered brows, her sad frown, all made her more endearing. He had to pinch his lips together to keep from voicing a question he’d never planned on asking any woman ever again. When she blinked, and a tear dropped off her long lashes, he bowed his head and pressed his lips to hers.
Her tiny gasp, barely noticeable, was rewarding, and he tilted her head to move his mouth over hers, using his tongue to encourage her lips to part. Even as her sweetness filled him, as her tongue gently met with his, Stafford kept telling himself he couldn’t ask her to marry him. The idea, though, continued to grow, as did the strength of his kiss. She completed him in a way he’d never known possible. Not just with passion, but with inspiration, showing him a future he’d never imagined before.
The Wrong Cowboy Page 17