“I’m just—”
“She won’t slow you down. She’ll work hard. If she gets behind, I’ll come in and catch her up.”
“Celia—”
“You won’t have to pay me nothing.”
“But you have chores at home and the sidewalks—”
“I’m done with the sidewalks.”
As part of Celia’s punishment for the part she played in Leah’s accident this past spring, she and a few other boys had been sentenced to build boardwalks for Armelle residents who’d yet to construct any despite city regulations.
Celia crossed her arms. “Plus, my mother can do without me. She did while I was working for the city.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you’d help. I just can’t afford to pay someone right now.”
“But Leah’s been all over town, and no one’s hiring her.” Celia flung open her arms. “After all she’s done for everybody, people should be bending over backwards for her—like she’s bent over backwards for everyone in Armelle at some time or another. So I don’t believe you. You’re all thinking that because her speech is slow now, her brains must be slow, too.”
“I’m so sorry, Celia. I understand your frustration and your desire to help.” The girl really had been working hard to help Leah lately. “I’ll pray she finds the work God’s prepared for her.”
Celia scowled. “That’s what Leah’s been saying. That God has something for her, and we gotta pray to find it. But if someone like you who obviously needs help won’t hire her, she’s expecting a miracle.” The young woman turned on her heel and stomped out, the door shutting behind her just short of a slam.
With a lump in her throat, Corinne lowered her hands back into the murky water and started scrubbing again, wincing at the stiffness in her fingers.
If only she could run after Celia and tell her she could hire Leah. She was exactly the type of woman Corrine wanted to help, a woman like she’d once been, thrust into an untenable position by a man who’d done her wrong.
Yet she couldn’t.
Corinne sucked up the moisture threatening to leave her face. She’d done enough crying this week, over finances, over her inability to sleep because of pain, over the piles of work she couldn’t get ahead of. Though the stinging in her hands was the worst it’d been in three weeks, the fact that Leah now suffered because of them seemed even more unfair.
After taking twenty minutes longer than necessary to wash Mrs. Ivens’s clothing, Corinne hung everything up and then cradled her hands. If her body didn’t start cooperating soon, she’d be begging for a job as well.
And she’d probably fare worse than Leah.
Closing shop, she trudged to the doctor’s. She couldn’t afford more medicine, but now that she faced eviction, she’d use what little money she had to see if the doctor could help. Hopefully he wouldn’t tell her the same thing he’d told her the last two times she’d visited.
Her hand slipped off the office’s doorknob, and she tried again with a stronger grip and a grimace, finally making her way into the empty waiting room.
“I don’t want to see you back in here again for something like this. You know better than to wear your leg so long. One of these days, a salve won’t fix it.”
Corinne grimaced at the doctor’s condescending tone, but he would likely talk to her in that same manner soon enough. He’d already told her several times she had to quit the laundry—as if that were a possibility.
“I understand, Doc, but I wasn’t in a position to go back for my crutches. My men needed—”
“Then don’t get into such a position again. You have to take care of what you have or you’ll lose it. And you shouldn’t have come into town on your leg. Stay off it for a few days.”
“I’ll try.” A few moments later, Nolan stepped out of an examination room, air hissing through his teeth with each step. He looked up and stiffened upon seeing her. The sharp lines around his tightly pressed lips deepened, but he started walking past her as if he hadn’t been limping. “Good day, Miss Stillwater.”
Attempting to keep her face blank so he’d not think she pitied him, she nodded as he moved past her toward the door. She likely wouldn’t fare any better with the doctor than he had.
“Miss Stillwater? What can I do for you?”
Holding out her hands, she gave him a half-hearted shrug.
Doctor Ellis shook his head and pointed her toward an exam room. “I suppose you’re still laundering from sunup to sundown.”
She crossed in front of him, sat on the table, and laid her hands on her lap for him to examine. “I can’t do anything else if I want to survive.”
“Nonsense. I’ve already told you your best course of action is to get married so you can stop doing the same things over and over with your hands. If you don’t, you could permanently damage them.”
“But getting married won’t get me out of laundry.”
“True, but that’s not all you’d do.”
She suppressed an irreverent chuckle. Men seemed to have no idea how long the laundry process was. And then there was the ironing. “If I were to give birth to baby after baby, I’d have just as much washing as I do now.”
“All those kids could help you with the washing.”
“Not until I’ve suffered through years of boiling diapers. Plus, I don’t see how churning butter, mending, and kneading dough would be any better for my hands.”
“It’s different movements. Though it’d be best if you took a few months off. A honeymoon holiday would do you good. Then you could ease yourself back into work.”
Did he expect her to marry a rich man? She might be able to find a homesteader willing to wed a random woman who promised to clean up after him, but if the doctor thought such a man would give her weeks off for a holiday and then let her ease into chores, well, Doctor Ellis was well-off enough to hire a maid and had likely never observed his wife toiling all day washing linens.
Even Nolan, on his fake leg, had it better than a woman hunched over a washboard. “I have to work, Doctor.”
“And if you don’t take my advice, you could permanently injure yourself. Then where would you be?”
A question she couldn’t think about if she wanted to sleep at night—not that she did much of that lately with her tingling fingers. “I understand.”
But understanding didn’t help much.
Jesus had said His followers were supposed to let tomorrow worry about itself since each day had enough trouble of its own. And though the doctor was insistent she worry about tomorrow, God knew she’d never look to marriage to rescue her, no matter how bad the future seemed.
All she could do was survive today.
Chapter Four
SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS MUST BE HARD TO HANDLE RANCH ALONE-
LOOK AFTER IT FOR ME YOU CAN STAY IF DESIRED-
Crumpling up the telegram, Nolan resisted the urge to pitch it across the telegraph office. He should’ve known Matt would act as if the ranch was already his, not worrying that Nolan might marry to keep it from him.
Of course, he couldn’t exactly fault Matt for not thinking he’d go through with a wedding. He’d told his family often enough he had no plans to marry.
But to have the gall to tell him to “look after” the ranch?
If his cousin were in charge, he would not remain on the ranch, no matter how magnanimous Matt thought he was to propose he stay on.
Nolan forced himself not to punch the wall beside him. He’d still been a boy when Dad had brought him to Wyoming. In an attempt to impress his father, he’d thrown himself into ranching, working sunup to sundown. But within two years, he’d lost his leg.
Dad was known for his daring feats on cattle drives, his ability to wrestle nearly any man into submission, and the sheer amount of backbreaking work he could squeeze into a day, but he’d been terrible at managing money. He should’ve been proud of a son who’d managed his books well, even if he couldn’t physically do as much as most ranchers.
“Was there anything else you needed?”
Nolan startled.
Mr. Udall stood behind the telegraph counter, his eyebrow arched as he looked from Nolan to the people lined up behind him.
“Sorry.” He backed away from the counter, nodding his head to the others. “I’m not in line. Forgive me.”
Outside, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked slowly. Since he hadn’t brought his crutches into town, he needed to be careful not to aggravate the abrasion on his leg.
What should he do now?
Nolan stopped and stared down the main road in the direction of his ranch. He couldn’t stay and submit to Matt’s orders. Though his father hadn’t acted as if he valued his management abilities, he had given him free rein to run things as he saw fit.
Matt wouldn’t.
Across the street, Miss Stillwater stepped out of the mercantile. Her hunched shoulders likely mirrored his own.
Despite her slumped posture, she was a decent-looking woman. Probably more than decent if he thought about it. He’d always admired the way she did business, even if her work ethic had declined recently.
If he had to marry…
No, he’d not change his convictions for material reasons. But double checking to be sure Miss Stillwater didn’t want his extra laundry would be a good thing—neighborly even.
His heart kicked up an unusual rhythm as he followed far, far behind her. It wouldn’t do to make her believe he’d followed her across town.
Minutes later, he paused in front of her door, then just shook his head and plowed in before he—
“Oh!”
A thud registered before he frowned down at Miss Stillwater, who was scrambling about on the floor by the window. Several glass bottles were strewn about in a mess of puddles.
Of all the clumsy things to do. He shut the door behind him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you drop—”
“Of course, you didn’t.” She looked up at him for a second before scooting over to pick up another bottle. “It was my fault. I just…” She picked up a glass vial and brought it up to eye level before audibly sighing. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does if I caused it.” He leaned over to retrieve an empty bottle which had broken at the neck. Nothing on the faded label indicated what it once contained. “I’ll buy you more.”
She took the jagged jar from his hand, wearing a pained expression. “They can’t be replaced.”
“Sure they can.” It couldn’t be too expensive.
“Well, you can’t replace them. It’s not something you buy. It takes time.” She glanced up at him, then shrugged. “They’re at different stages of evaporation.”
“Oh.” So maybe he couldn’t replace them, but why care about evaporation stages?
“And it wasn’t your fault—not directly anyway. I was turning over the sign, but missed the hook. You startled me, but I’m the one who knocked them over.” She leaned over to pick up her closed sign. Her face paled, and she seemed to be gritting her teeth while lifting the placard up to the window.
He knew that look, or at least, he’d seen it on his own face occasionally. On mornings when the weather wreaked havoc with his amputated leg, or when he’d worked too hard the day before and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above his washstand.
The look he’d likely sport now if he weren’t in town and anxious to keep people from asking him if he was all right every few minutes. After a while, no one wanted to hear about your chronic pain, and it was hard to lie and say everything was fine when your face told a different story.
Glancing down the length of her, he searched for signs of blood where broken glass might have cut, but all he saw was her hands curled up tight, holding nothing.
But he wouldn’t ask what was wrong. She had likely seen the same look on his face the other day at the doctor’s and refrained from asking. A woman who didn’t nag… “So why haven’t you married?”
All right, so that question was even worse to have blurted out.
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Why…”
“I’m s—”
“…I’d rather die.”
“Die?” Perhaps one person in this world was more adamantly opposed to being wedded than he.
“I’m sorry. That just—” Corinne put a hand across her mouth, “—slipped out.”
“No need to apologize. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
She eyed him. “You mean, that’s all there is to it?”
Her piercing gaze made it hard not to squirm. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Any time a man asks me that, there’s always a proposal following, if not immediately, then soon after. No matter how clearly I’ve hinted I’m not interested, the question comes anyway.” Her face colored, a nice change from the ashen tones from earlier. “Though I suppose the ‘hint’ I gave you was a bit harsh.”
“‘I’d rather die’ is hard to miss.”
Her mouth wriggled to one side. “So then?”
“I was, uh, just wondering.” He reached up to run a hand through his hair, but stopped short of knocking his hat off. “Like you, I’m always trying to thwart people from attempting to marry me off. Why can’t they stop badgering us when it’s clearly a strongly held conviction?”
She relaxed a little, but not enough to release the tension in the fine lines around her mouth.
“I knew better than to ask.” He reached past her to straighten her sign. “I understand how it is—well, maybe not as well as you do since I’m not fending off unwanted proposals. But it’s obvious why I’ve remained single. I guess I’m just curious as to your reasons.”
“And why are you single?”
He frowned. “I thought that was self-evident.”
She shook her head slightly, though he wasn’t sure she’d meant to do so.
“My leg.” He pointed.
She blinked. “What about it?”
His frown deepened. “A woman doesn’t want a husband without one.”
“That’s a sorry excuse. You’re walking around just fine, and your ranch is doing well from what I’ve heard.”
He opened his mouth to explain why a woman ought to think twice about marrying a man who could one day become more of a burden than an asset out West, but then shrugged. She could think it through if she wanted to figure out why wedding him was unwise. “What about your reason?”
She shook her head.
He bit his tongue to keep from pressing her. It wasn’t as if she’d started this interrogation. “Well, if you don’t mind then, I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone why I’m opposed to marriage.”
“Why not?”
“Since you found it lackluster and not as obvious as I believed, if you let others know, I might have to fend off a stampede of proposals.” He grinned, hoping to pull this conversation out of the quagmire he’d put it in. “I’d rather leave that mess to you.”
She rolled her eyes, but he heard the hint of a chuckle. Glancing down at the broken glass near her feet, she sighed and turned to look around the room.
“Looking for your broom?” He pointed behind her, but then sidestepped to retrieve it himself. “I’ll take care of it.”
Though she was biting her lip, she didn’t stop him, even when he started to lower himself onto his good knee. Of course, his fake knee’s hinge chose now to protest his attempt to get down far enough to sweep up glass fragments.
She stepped forward, but he shook his head. She better not stop him when he’d already gotten down this far. Since something was wrong with her hands, it wasn’t as if she were better off sweeping.
After all the shards were collected, he rested his elbow on his wooden leg socket, summoning the strength to get back up without making an awkward show of it. Considering how much difficulty he was having getting up and down—as if he were seventy already—how would he survive the coming years if he hadn’t the ranch to support himself? He could labo
r, yes, but not as well as other men his age. And who’d believe he had a good head for numbers if they found out he’d lost his ranch?
Any woman desperate enough to wed him within three months likely had problems of her own, and marrying a mess of a woman could make him more miserable than he would be landless.
And considering Corinne was tight-lipped about her reasons for not marrying, they were likely bad enough he’d rue marrying her—if she ever got desperate enough to agree, which seemed unlikely.
“Um, do you need help up?”
Heat spiraled up his neck. “No, I’m just gearing up to it.” He put out his hand to have her back away and tried to get up in one fell swoop. He teetered when his false leg didn’t quite cooperate but he held it together. Then he glanced down and realized he’d left the dustpan on the floor.
“I’ll get that.” She swooped down without looking at him. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Perhaps witnessing his complete lack of grace would make it clear why no young lady would choose to marry him.
So maybe he ought to look for someone old.
The laundry door’s bell jangled as Celia Hendrix charged in. She didn’t spare him a glance before stopping in front of Corinne. Her messy auburn braids were uncharacteristically coiled atop her head, though it did appear she’d pinned them up without looking. “Have you thought any more about helping Mrs. Whitsett? No one’s hiring.”
Corinne got up off the floor, and he took the dustpan from her hand.
Celia glared at the laundry piled up around the room. “You can’t tell me you don’t need help.”
Corinne looked at him for a second before clearing her throat. “As I said, it’s more that I can’t afford it. Though I’m trying to think of a way Leah could help me, I don’t—”
“You’re going to help her?” Celia’s brows shot up.
Corinne nodded with a slight shrug. “I’m not sure I can do much, but I want to—”
Pretending to Wed Page 3