Outlaw’s Bride

by Johnston, Joan

  “He still does,” Leah said. “Only, the ones I make taste more like shoe leather.”

  “Those used to be my favorite kind,” Patch said with a chuckle.

  Patch found the flour and began looking for the other ingredients she needed. Every step of the way Leah said, “That’s not how Ma does it.” Or, “Ma always does it this way.” Patch obligingly changed her methods, each time involving Leah in the preparation of the biscuits. Before long, Patch had the dough ready to cut into circles.

  “Ma always let me do that,” Leah mumbled.

  Patch handed over the cup she had intended to use. “I’ll get some beans started.”

  Before long there were biscuits in the oven and beans on the potbellied stove. Leah showed Patch where she could find a smoked ham. Between them they set the table.

  “Too bad we don’t have some flowers for the table,” Patch murmured.

  “There’s some black-eyed Susans out back. I mean, if you gotta have flowers.”

  “Thanks, Leah.” Patch put a hand on Leah’s shoulder, but Leah stepped out from under the caress.

  “I better go pick those flowers.”

  “I’ll check on your mother.”

  Leah paused on her way out the door. “Ma would like what you did to the house,” she conceded.

  “Thanks, Leah.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t thank me. You did most of the work.” A moment later she was out the kitchen door and had shoved it closed behind her.

  Patch shook her head. She knew some of the things Leah must be feeling. She remembered her own turmoil when her father had advertised for a mail-order bride and Molly Gallagher had shown up with her two children. Patch had bitterly resented their intrusion. She had hated Molly on sight and felt an equal animosity toward Whit. She remembered labeling Nessie a whining crybaby.

  But she hadn’t come here to be Leah’s mother. Leah already had a mother.

  Who might be dying.

  Patch wondered what was wrong with Nell that a doctor couldn’t fix. She hoped it wasn’t as serious as it appeared. From her little acquaintance with Nell Hawk, she already liked her.

  Patch eased Nell’s bedroom door open slowly, but the hinges obviously hadn’t been oiled in a while, because they squeaked loudly.

  “Is that you, Leah?”

  “It’s me,” Patch answered.

  There was a moment of silence.

  Patch stepped into the room. The old woman was obviously agitated, but Patch wasn’t sure why.

  Nell sniffed the air, frowned, then sniffed again. “How long have I been asleep?” she asked irritably.

  Patch glanced out the window at the unbroken view of rolling prairie. The sun was low in the sky. “Most of the afternoon. It’s nearly suppertime. In fact, I came to see if I can bring you something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Patch raised a brow. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I had a glass of milk and some mush for breakfast. I … I don’t remember what I ate for lunch.”

  Patch was alarmed. Ethan’s mother certainly couldn’t get well if she didn’t eat. “Could you manage some ham and beans and biscuits.”

  “Is that what smells so good?”

  “Yes.”

  Nell smiled with relief. “Oh, dear. I thought I’d gone crazy for sure. I smelled ham and biscuits, and I couldn’t figure out how that was possible since I haven’t been out of this bed to cook for weeks.”

  “Leah helped me.”

  Nell’s eyes went wide. “She did? My Leah?”

  “She insisted I make the biscuits just the way you would.”

  Nell’s chin began to quiver.

  Patch was desperate for a diversion that would take Nell’s mind off the illness that kept her bedridden and unable to take care of her family. Just at that moment, Max moved in her apron pocket. Patch reached down and pulled him out to display him in the palm of her hand.

  “Look what I have. His name is Max.”

  Patch didn’t see Leah come in behind her. Leah peered around Patch, curious to see what Patch was showing her mother.

  “It’s a mouse!”

  Leah’s excited cry frightened Max, who scrambled up the arm of Patch’s shirtwaist. Patch grabbed for him, but he shot off her shoulder onto Nell’s pillow.

  Nell shrieked “Catch him!” and covered her head with the quilt.

  “He’s gone off the other side!” Leah shouted as she leapt over the bed in pursuit. “I think he dropped to the floor!”

  Patch fell to her knees and peered under the bed, but all she saw was Leah on the other side.

  Drawn by the commotion, the calico cat appeared at the bedroom door and let out a loud “Mrrrrrrow!”

  “How did the cat get in here?” Patch cried. “She was still outside when I covered up that hole in the kitchen floor.”

  “I brought Calico in,” Leah replied. “Her babies were crying for her.”

  Patch met Leah’s hazel eyes across the bed. “That cat of yours will kill Max if she catches him. You get her, and I’ll try to catch Max.”

  Nell lowered the covers enough to ask, “Have you found him yet?”

  “No, but—”

  “There he is!” Nell pointed at the mouse as it ran along the foot of the bedstead and shot off onto the quilt and down over the side of the bed again. Nell shouted orders as Patch and Leah scooted under the bed.

  “Get the cat!” Patch screeched at Leah.

  Patch and Leah found themselves face-to-face under the bed. The calico cat had the mouse cornered between the carved leg of the bed and the wall.

  Leah grabbed the spitting, clawing cat by the scruff of the neck and dragged her away. “Ow! Hurry up, Patch. She’s scratching me!”

  Patch caught Max as he made a break for it. “Got him!” She wriggled back out from under the bed, fanny first. She lifted her head too soon and caught it on the edge of the bed. “Garn! That hurts!”

  She sat up triumphantly on the floor at the side of Nell’s bed and held the mouse aloft in her hand. Her scarf had come off and pulled her hair down with it. Blond tresses dangled over one eye. A piece of fuzz was stuck on her nose, and she could feel grit on her cheek. Obviously, Leah hadn’t cleaned under her mother’s bed lately. But at least Max was safe. The ridiculousness of the situation hit her all at once and a silly grin split her face.

  Patch heard a footstep behind her. She looked up and found herself staring into a pair of disbelieving male eyes.

  “What on God’s green earth are you doing down there, Patch?”

  It was Ethan. He was home.

  Ethan had spent the better part of the day rounding up stray cattle. He was appalled at how few there were to gather. The only way he had survived the seven miserable years he had spent in prison was by imagining how wonderful it would be when he returned to his family and the Double Diamond a free man. His homecoming had been an awful disappointment, a rude awakening to the cold light of reality.

  His father was dead. The ranch was in ruins. His mother was sick. His sister was a stranger who watched him with wary eyes. He had felt like crying. But he hadn’t. He had gone instead to see Boyd Stuckey, who had been his best friend when they were kids growing up. He had shared everything with Boyd, both his joys and his troubles. In the face of the disaster he had found on his release from prison, he had needed a friend.

  Boyd had welcomed him like a long-lost brother. “Ethan! It’s great to have you home!”

  They had shaken hands, and Ethan wasn’t sure which of them had made the first move, but a moment later they were hugging and patting each other on the back. They parted and grinned at each other. They were men now, but the friendship they had forged as boys was a bond that had never been broken. Each knew he could trust his life in the other’s hands. In the West, that was about as deep as friendship got.

  “You’ve changed,” Boyd said.

  “You haven’t,” Ethan said.

  Boyd gestured Ethan to a brass-studded
leather chair, one of two situated across from each other in front of the stone fireplace in Boyd’s parlor. Once Ethan was seated, Boyd took the other chair.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Whiskey, if you have it.”

  “Theresa,” Boyd called. “Some whiskey, por favor.”

  A pretty Mexican girl brought a tray with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses and set it on a nearby table before she disappeared.

  Ethan whistled his approval. “Very nice.”

  “My housekeeper,” Boyd said with a dimpled grin as he poured them each a whiskey. “What shall we drink to?”

  “Freedom,” Ethan said.

  When their glasses were empty, Boyd refilled Ethan’s and settled back in his chair. “How have you been?”

  Ethan hesitated. A man kept his hardships to himself. And there wasn’t much good to share.

  “That was a stupid question,” Boyd said. He turned his empty glass in his hands. “I’m sorry about your pa.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe he’s been dead for two years.” Ethan shook his head. “And I can’t believe what bad shape the ranch is in.”

  “Careless never did find out who rustled all your pa’s cattle,” Boyd said. “I did the best I could to help your ma, but she said she’d never taken charity and never would. Wish I could’ve done more.”

  “I thank you for being there for both of them while I was gone.”

  Neither man spoke about the events of seventeen years ago that had forced them to go their separate ways, to lead separate lives, and put their friendship in abeyance.

  “I never had a chance to thank you for speaking up for me at the trial,” Ethan said.

  “It was the least I could do. You’re the best friend I ever had.” Boyd paused and added, “I missed you, Ethan.”

  The moment might have gotten maudlin, but neither man could have tolerated that.

  Boyd grinned. “With you gone, it’s been as peaceful around here as a thumb in a baby’s mouth. Maybe there’ll be a little excitement now that you’re home.”

  Ethan grinned back. “Likely you’ll see so much of me now that you’ll start barring the door when you hear me coming.”

  They had laughed and talked about other, happier, things and finally, when he had worn out his welcome, Ethan left. He felt better. And he felt worse.

  Ethan had shared everything with Boyd when they were children, because Boyd had owned nothing. Their circumstances were nearly reversed now. Boyd was obviously very well off, while Ethan was barely making ends meet. It was a sign of what good friends they had been—still were—that Ethan could be happy for Boyd, rather than jealous of him. But after that first visit, he avoided Boyd because seeing his friend reminded him too much of all he had lost.

  Sometimes, when Ethan saw how much work it would take to bring the Double Diamond back to what it had been, he wished his mother had sold out. She’d had several offers for the ranch, including one from Boyd, back when it had been in better condition. Then he would look around him, at the land he and his father had worked together, and feel a well of emotion so great he almost couldn’t breathe. In those moments he was glad—and grateful—that his mother had struggled, tooth and claw, to save his heritage for him.

  But he wondered about the cost of her sacrifice. She had been confined to her bed constantly since he had returned home. Lately he had come to believe that Doc Carter was right, that his mother was dying of the same wasting sickness that had claimed his father. And, though he fought against admitting it, he was afraid she hadn’t much longer to live.

  It was plain to see the effects of all that calamity on Leah. His younger sister had sad, wise old eyes that belied her tender age. Leah hadn’t even been born when he had been forced to flee his home. He had seen her briefly when he was on trial—a spindly child of five, all eyes and ears, hands and feet. But now, seven years later, she was a stranger to him, and it felt awkward treating her like the sister she was.

  Leah was so tough on the outside that it had taken him a while to see how frightened she was inside. She kept to herself, and he was having a hard time breaching her defenses. His sister reminded him a great deal of another rebellious tomboy he had known.

  Patch.

  Ethan had tried not to think about Patch, but the image of her as she lay beneath him at the Oakville Hotel kept creeping back. He had spent the day wondering what she was doing in south Texas and wishing that his life were in better shape than it was. She had grown up into a beautiful, desirable woman.

  Ethan swore as his body tightened in response to the mere thought of her. He had no business thinking about any lady in those terms. Least of all Patch!

  Even if he were not a convicted murderer, it was becoming increasingly clear that Jefferson Trahern was never going to let him be free to marry and settle down. Ethan always had to watch his back for an ambush.

  As he approached the ranch house, the sun was nearly down. He was dog-tired, but there was work yet to be done. The horses and hogs and chickens had to be fed. He didn’t keep a milk cow because he was never sure he would be around to milk it. He hoped Leah had made some supper, but it wasn’t always a sure thing. Maybe tonight he could make some headway on the mess in the house.

  Dusk had reduced the landscape to shadows by the time Ethan had brushed down his horse and fed the animals. He trudged to the house, wondering why Leah had lit so many lamps. When he shoved open the front door, he stopped dead.

  The parlor was immaculate. The cat and her litter of kittens had been consigned to a basket in the corner. The top was down on his rolltop desk. The hole in the arm of the horsehair sofa had been covered with a neatly pressed doily. His spurs still hung from the hat rack, but his old saddle blanket was nowhere to be seen. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be found. And he could smell food. Delicious food.

  Biscuits and … ham?

  Ethan’s first thought was that his mother must have made a miraculous recovery. She was the only one he knew who could have wrought such an astonishing change in the state of things in a single day. He looked for her first in the kitchen, but when he didn’t find her there, he figured she must have lain down for a rest after all that effort.

  Ethan headed for her bedroom, his stride confident despite his limp. He felt really, truly happy for the first time in the month since he had come home.

  He shoved open the door and was treated to the appalling—but utterly appealing—sight of a woman’s fanny wriggling out from under his mother’s bed. You could have knocked him over with a feather when he saw who it was.

  “What on God’s green earth are you doing down there, Patch?”

  Patch reached up to tuck in the hank of hair that had fallen across her brow. She brushed her nose where the piece of lint she had picked up under the bed tickled her. “Hello, Ethan.”

  Patch’s heart was beating lickety-split in her chest. Of all the times for Ethan to arrive! She knew she ought to get up, dust herself off, do something! But she sat there like a bump on a log, just staring at him.

  His hair was darker than she remembered. That was to be expected after all the years he had spent confined in a cell. Lines bracketed his mouth, and deep crow’s feet fanned out from piercing green eyes that had seen too much sorrow and disillusion and disappointment. His angular face showed the harshness of a life spent running from the law. But to her, every line, every wrinkle was dear.

  His features were blunt, his nose straight, his chin strong, his cheekbones high and wide. Right at this moment his eyes were wide with worry and surprise and … confusion. She had the sneakiest suspicion that he wasn’t glad to see her.

  “Hi, Ethan!” Leah jumped up, the snarling calico cat hanging by the scruff of its neck from her hand. “This lady says she knows you!”

  “What are you doing here, Patch?” Ethan said in a harsh, very unwelcoming voice.

  Patch’s heart was in her throat, so she cleared it before she spoke. “Looking for you.” She tuck
ed the mouse back in her apron pocket and struggled to her feet.

  Ethan reached down a hand to help her, and Patch was aware of a stirring warmth where he touched her arm.

  “I’m here now. What do you want?” he demanded.

  Patch was aware of the two interested parties listening with bated breath. “Is there somewhere we can be alone?”

  “Ethan doesn’t keep secrets from us,” Leah piped up.

  Patch shot a pleading glance in Ethan’s direction. He grabbed her by the hand and headed out the bedroom door. When Leah started after them, he turned and said, “Let us be, Leah.”

  “Aw, Ethan—”

  Nell called Leah back to her side. “I need some help getting my quilts straightened up, girl.”

  Leah groaned, but she turned back toward her mother.

  Ethan yanked Patch through the immaculate parlor, through the kitchen, with its enticing smells and table set for supper, and out the back door. He kicked the door twice before it would close in the frame.

  Ethan stopped beneath a tin roof that looked like it might collapse at any moment and swung Patch around in front of him. “Give me the mouse.”

  Patch reached down and pulled Max from her apron pocket. Ethan picked up the mouse by its tail, dropped it in the wooden box that held his mother’s gardening tools, and slapped the lid closed.

  He turned to Patch, crossed his arms, and snapped, “I want to know what the hell is going on! What are you doing in Oakville, Texas? Does your father know why you’re here? How did you find this place?”

  “Looking for you. Not yet. And Mr. Felber gave me directions,” Patch snapped back.

  “What are you doing here, Patch?”

  “I think that should be perfectly obvious.”

  “Not to me, so spit it out.”

  “I’m here to marry you.”

  Ethan glared at her from beneath lowered brows. He didn’t look at all like a happy groom.

  Patch’s heart dropped to her feet. “You don’t have to look so surprised. You promised to marry me, and here I am.”

  “I don’t remember doing any such thing!”

  “When you left Fort Benton—”

  “When I left Montana seven years ago—”