He glanced at her, his expression unreadable, but seemed to be mulling over his response. He turned back to the road. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
In misery, she turned her face away, unable to look at him for another moment. What had happened? Why was he rejecting her? And why had she let her temper get the better of her to make such a senseless, juvenile statement? She didn’t even play the piano, let alone dream about owning one.
Her eyes filled, and she set her jaw to keep from crying. All she wanted to do was make him happy! And she was doing everything but. They were married. Man and wife. She had to try and make things right, or else…or else what?
“My day was lovely,” she said haltingly, trying to keep her voice steady. “I had the nicest time with Ina and her family. I really like them, admire them. They’re good people.” There. That was about the safest ground she could tread. After a moment, and the sounds of the evening being her only response, she ventured a look in his direction, hoping he’d turn his head and meet her halfway. He did, all right, but with a look so cold it froze her heart. Then he turned forward again. After that, a chiseled rock couldn’t have been more unresponsive as he sat silently on the rocking buckboard seat.
***
Chance searched his recollection for what June had told him to try: Don’t jump to conclusions. Things may not be what they seem. Give in. Laugh. Say you’re sorry. Smile. Tell her she’s pretty. Give her the benefit of the doubt. Talk it out.
Talk? Hell! He couldn’t even think. Especially when she so brazenly threw Hayden in his face, all but proclaiming her admiration and respect for the man. Great waves of energy pulled at his chest, making his heart thwack against his ribs so hard he expected her to ask what the commotion was. This had been about the longest day of his life, waiting for five o’clock to roll around. Perdition, for sure.
At the turnoff, he guided the team off the main road and onto the quarter-mile lane that crossed his front pasture and led to the house. Halfway there he spotted Dexter, apparently hearing their approach and sprinting through the grass to greet them. His wife hadn’t said a thing since her last proclamation of love for the Klinkner family.
“Whoa.” He pulled up in front of the house in silence and set the brake, wondering how they were going to cohabitate without acknowledging each other. He got out and, not knowing what else to do, went slowly around the wagon to her side, intending to help her down. He was just a cowboy. What the heck did she expect of him, anyway?
There she sat wrapped in the blanket, her chin jutting out and her eyes straight ahead. He waited. Surely, she wasn’t going to sit there all night. Did she want an apology? What would he apologize for? Driving her into Y Knot and picking her up again?
“Evie.”
When she didn’t move or speak, he reached down and patted Dexter’s head. “Hey there, Dex. How you doin’, boy?” The dog’s happy display of affection did little to lighten his mood. He waited with the chirping crickets and the rustle of soft grass in the breeze.
“Evie,” he tried again. “Come on. It’s time to go in. Let me help you down.”
What should he do? Tonight he’d seen a new side to Evie, one he hadn’t even known existed. The woman had a sassy tongue when she wanted one. He couldn’t leave her out here, but it was evident she wanted nothing to do with him. Well, that was just too bad. “We’re both tired and it’s been a long day. You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.” Without waiting for a reply, he scooped her up in his arms, expecting her to fight him, or push him away.
Instead, she melted against his chest without saying a word. Her face tucked in under his chin and he felt the wetness of her tears against his neck. His anger evaporated. He thought he smelled something sweet, like chocolate, but then it was gone.
He crossed the yard and took the stairs two at a time. He carried her over the threshold into the cold, dark house, wondering how he was going to light the lantern and start the fire with her clinging to him this way.
“Sorry about the house being cold,” he said, looking for something to say. “I stayed outdoors most of the day, tending the cattle and cutting hay.”
Truth was, he’d caught himself all too many times starting for the house, intending to see Evie, be with her, enjoy when her cheeks blossomed as he told her he’d never seen a bed so properly made, or brighter windows than hers. Then he’d remember she was spending the day with Hayden and Ina, and his mood soured, and his heart felt like a stone.
He stopped in the middle of the room, but she made no move to leave his arms.
“Evie,” he said gently, starting to get worried. “I need to go out and stable the horses.”
Again when she didn’t respond, he carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She kept her eyes closed, even though they both knew she wasn’t asleep.
“Okay, then.” He looked down at her. Brushed several wisps of hair out of her face. “I’ll be back in a few.”
He turned and left, not knowing what else to do. He missed the feel of her pressed up next to him, clinging to him. Whether she liked it or not, liked the country or not, they were wed. Maybe it was time he let her know that she was his.
Hurrying in the barn, he unharnessed the team and turned them out. He was just about to button the place up when he spotted something in the buckboard behind the seat. The basket Evie had brought home with her from the Klinkners’. He’d forgotten all about it. Circling to the passenger’s side, he lifted it out from the bed of the wagon and looked inside. At first, he couldn’t tell what it was. There was a balled-up piece of yarn with knitting needles, and he figured the two women had started some project together. Underneath that, before he could get to it, a savory aroma wafted up, making his mouth water and his stomach gurgle painfully.
Chapter Twenty-Four
EVIE LAY on the pine-posted bed, tired, despondent, and more than ready to give up on everything. If he wanted her to leave, she would. Living with a man who didn’t want her was too painful. She listened, wondering if he was going to return. He’d said he was, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t ride off, leaving her to clear her things out. Mentally squaring her shoulders, she sat up, wiped her eyes. God willing, she’d get through this, same as her mother had when she found herself with child.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and went through the dark house to the hearth in search of the small box of matches. With shaky hands, she lit the lantern on the table, and when light blossomed, she felt a little better. She lit two more, then stacked some tinder in her oven and wadded up some old newspaper. Lighting it, she put the teakettle on, then remembered the food in the wagon.
Boot heels sounded and the door opened. Chance stood there with Ina’s basket in his hands. He walked to the table and set it down. “Found this in the buckboard.”
“Thank you.”
For several long moments, he just stood there, watching as she took the containers out and set them on the table. Potato salad, slaw, and more than enough fried chicken to feed them both for a couple of days. Ina had also given her a loaf of fresh bread to add to the fare. She arranged them on the table, then fetched two plates and set them on her pretty white tablecloth.
“Aren’t you going to remove it?”
She usually took the cloth off, wanting to keep it tidy, but what did it matter, really? “No. Not tonight.”
He went to the sink and worked the pump, and she could hear him washing his hands.
“Looks like you and Ina were busy today,” he said over his shoulder.
He sounded different. Why? She had no idea.
“We did some cooking to pass the time.”
At the table, he pulled out her chair and just stood there.
“Thank you, but I’m not quite ready to sit. You go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the tea and butter for your bread.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wait.”
Darn! He was making her nervous. It would be so much easier if he’d just sit down and
eat. Take his eyes off her every move.
Finally finished, she took her seat and he gently scooted in her chair. She served their plates, said a silent blessing. Nothing looked appealing. After the day she’d had, cooking, nibbling and tasting, separating eggs, chopping onions, and then the argument on the ride home, she had no appetite at all. Chance dug in heartily, however, seeming to enjoy every bite he took.
After a few minutes of silence, he took his napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. “This is really good.” He looked at her. “You made it?”
She nodded. “We made it together.”
“Well, it sure is welcome after a long day of work.” He took a gulp of tea from the mug Faith and Amy had given them. He forked half a chicken breast onto his plate and started cutting it up. “I’ve been thinking. We could use a hen house. That way we’ll have fresh eggs and maybe even a supper like this once in a while.”
Just like that, he’d snapped out of his mood? The black cloud hanging over his head since their walk in the moonlight last night, gone, vanished from just a few bites of fried chicken? Really?
He looked at her. “What do you think? Wouldn’t take me long once I got started.”
What? She wanted to pour out her heart. Tell him her whole past; get it all on the table so her heart could heal.
Tell him and have him love her anyway. Pledge his soul to her, through good times and in bad, through misunderstandings, feelings of anger, sadness, and joy, through anything life could throw their way. But now, fried chicken and potato salad meant more to him than whatever it was that had ruined two whole days of their life. Her heart squeezed painfully, and a small hitch in her breathing drew his attention.
She didn’t understand it. Did not understand him. Her husband, a stranger.
“Sounds fine. I’d like that.”
“We’ll put the henhouse on this side of the barn,” he said, totally unaware of the war her heart was waging inside her chest. “So we can keep an eye on the flock. Make sure no coyotes get in and cause trouble.”
“That would be nice.” What else could she say?
Dexter scratched on the door. She started to get up to let him in, but Chance stopped her with a hand on her arm. “He can wait. You need to finish your supper.”
And so the evening went. All the joy of her learning to bake and cook for her husband was gone, and Chance tiptoed around her as if he thought she would break. She shrank into herself when he lit a fire and pulled a buffalo robe close to the hearth. The only chairs they had were the ones at the dinner table, and not very comfortable for relaxing. Chance had several large animal skins stacked in the corner of the room and they had, on occasion, used them to sit by the fire. Either she read aloud or they talked. Tonight, she didn’t feel that invitation at all. She quietly went about washing and drying the dishes, then putting them away. Occasionally she’d glance at him where he sat, lost in thought, feet stretched out toward the flame.
“Good night,” she said softly, standing by the bedroom door. She held the lantern from the table, leaving him the light of the fire and one other small lamp on top of the pie safe Roady had built.
“Good night. Sleep well.” He didn’t turn, or smile, and the sorrow in his voice was as thick as the spring grass on the rolling hills outside.
Inside, she clicked the door softly closed, not knowing what else to do. Chance’s bedroll was where it always was, still rumpled from last night’s sleep. Would he come in later? It didn’t feel like it. Everything had changed, and she wasn’t sure of the reasons why.
She placed the lantern on the second-hand dresser Chance had surprised her with, and opened the top drawer. Next to her stationery was her feather duster, lying there innocently as if it were nothing more than a pretty sachet, a knickknack to keep. Pain ripped through her already tattered heart. In actuality, the seemingly innocent instrument brought her past life rushing back, her secrets along with her pain. It felt as if it were mocking her for actually believing her possibilities for change—for a family and love—might actually happen.
She pushed the duster aside and took a piece of her stationery, sadness for what could have been weighing her actions, and put the paper next to her small bottle of ink on top of the furniture. Sitting on the bed, she carefully dipped her pen. Her hand shook so violently she had to stop and compose herself or Trudy wouldn’t be able to read a word. She needed to tell someone her heart was breaking, her world turning upside down, and ask how to save her crumbling life. She began, My Dearest Trudy…
Chapter Twenty-Five
RISING EARLY, Evie found Chance’s bedroll on top of the buffalo robes. Sometime in the night he’d come into the bedroom and fetched it, placing it before the hearth. She knelt down and ran her hands over the soft blankets, missing her husband with all her heart. How had things gone so wrong, so fast? She held one blanket to her cheek and closed her eyes. Imagined Chance’s face the first time she’d seen it at the stage. What could she do?
With a sigh, she stood. Turned. Something on the table caught her eye, something that hadn’t been there when she’d gone to bed. Hurrying over, she found a pair of trousers and a boy-sized shirt neatly folded. She held them up, then measured each piece to her body. A whisper of hope lightened her mood, causing a slight smile to play around her lips. Maybe he does care.
She went to the window and searched outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Thank him for his thoughtfulness. She wondered when he’d purchased them. Yesterday? When he’d been so withdrawn?
The barn seemed quiet. Going out on the front porch, she looked around, took in the rolling green pastures and clear blue sky. Nothing. No one. Not even Dexter.
Feeling lonely, she washed and dressed in her new clothes. They felt strange over her corset—a bit loose—but were soft and comfortable. She peered into the mirror hanging on the wall.
She looked like Ernie, her friend in St. Louis who came to trim the trees! She turned first to her left and then to her right. Hopped up and down. Lunged forward, then back. Wonderful! She liked them. How easy it would be to scrub the floor and shake the rugs. She imagined herself in the field, cutting hay alongside Chance.
Bringing her thoughts back to the moment, Evie felt a burning desire to send her letter on its way to Trudy. Maybe her friend would have some wisdom to help. The thoughtfulness of the clothes inspired hope, but it didn’t mean Chance had changed his mind.
Maybe she could handle this herself. The other day, on their way to town, Chance had shown her a sturdy wooden box nailed to a tree, a short ways past where their wagon path met the main road. It had a door and a latch, which kept out the weather. Next to the drop box was a little pointy sign that read, Y KNOT, 3 MILES. He’d said she could leave letters there if she wanted. A rider made the rounds every few days and would gather anything left inside. At the store, Mr. Simpson would post it and keep a tab to be paid later. If a neighbor came by on the way to town, they’d pick up any posts and drop them at the mercantile. She shouldn’t send money, of course, or anything of value, but letters would be safe because it was a crime to tamper with the mail. A fact I know well enough now!
If she didn’t try now, it may be days, or even a week, until she could post her letter to Trudy.
The house was already tidy, and there were still leftovers from yesterday for a noon meal for Chance, if he happened to come back. So, letter in hand she started down the strip of land between the wagon ruts, her boots silent in the soft grass. She’d make it to the drop box and back before being missed.
***
Chance straightened, removed his hat, and swiped his arm across his sweaty brow. The cool breeze felt good as he leaned on the shovel and looked at the large hole before him in the soft, fragrant earth. The lifeless body of a tiny heifer calf lying on the grass nearby made him swallow hard. The mother grazed over the rise, every now and then giving a sad moo as if wondering what had happened to her young’un.
What a shame. He was moved by the tininess of the anima
l, its delicately soft hide, its big, sleeping eyes. Well, he knew it wasn’t really sleeping, but liked thinking that rather than the alternative. It was a mystery why. The cow looked fine. Her milk had come in and she didn’t show any signs of a problem. Maybe the little one had something inside that hadn’t developed enough to enable the calf to survive on its own.
Such was life. He pressed his hat on, took up the shovel and resumed the work, hefting a load of dirt out of the hole and depositing it neatly alongside.
Life and death. Goodness and evil. Love and…pain.
He reined in his thoughts. Who could understand any of it? Evie popped into his mind and he shook his head dispiritedly. She confused him. He’d thought he was ready for a wife, but now he wasn’t quite so sure. It wasn’t like getting a new horse. Horses were predictable. Once you trained them and got used to them, they were loyal and responsive. Heck, he loved his horses. And, sadly now, he loved his wife, too. But she was a different story altogether. “Training,” if that’s what he was supposed to be doing, wasn’t going so well with her. He couldn’t figure her out. Was she happy? Would she stay true to him? Why would she want a whole day with Ina? Should he trust what she said?
Maybe he’d been a fool to get so riled when she asked to see her friend in Y Knot. But anything dealing with Hayden Klinkner had him seeing red. If Evie hadn’t wanted to go back to St. Louis before yesterday, she surely must now.
Finished digging, he put the shovel down and carefully lifted the tiny animal in his arms, a burn stinging his eyes. He couldn’t help it. He loved his cattle. Every single one of them. He gazed at her face, the dark black line outlining her eyes and muzzle. Her tiny little hooves clicked together, making Dexter look over from his spot in the grass.
As he placed her gently in her grave he dashed away a tear. “Here you go, pretty little one. Rest well.” He thought of Evie last night in his arms, despondent, her wet cheek against his throat. Her pain. Her sad voice. His first tear was followed by another and another, until his face was wet. How could he have treated her so badly?
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Evie (McCutcheon) Page 14