Secondhand Bride

by Linda Lael Miller

  Jeb grinned, though unwillingly. “You’ll get along,” he answered.

  Mandy had busied herself serving supper, and Chloe went to help. The meal was a sizable one, a venison roast, potatoes, and three kinds of vegetables, plus biscuits and gravy, and as Chloe lifted her fork, she couldn’t help thinking of the Jessup children, alone in that wagon behind the church, and of little Jennie, probably pilfering food from the saloon.

  “There’s a man named Jessup working on your ranch,” Chloe said to Kade, when the moment seemed right. “If you’re acquainted with him, I’d like you to pass on a message.”

  “I know him,” Kade said good-naturedly. “What shall I say?”

  “Tell Mr. Jessup, please, that I want to speak with him about his children,” Chloe answered. “At his earliest convenience.”

  Kade nodded. “Done.”

  She reached for a biscuit, and her hand bumped into Jeb’s over the basket. They both drew back as if they’d been burned, and it seemed to Chloe that everyone at the table noticed, though nothing was said. They had a way of smiling behind their eyes, these McKettricks, while their lips remained still.

  After that, she stole only the occasional glance at Jeb, and with each one, he seemed to be paler. It had only been a few days since the shooting, not to mention the surgery. He should have been at the hotel, in bed, not way out here on the Circle C, showing the effects of a long and uncomfortable wagon ride. She wished he’d excuse himself—he’d hardly touched his supper anyway—and take his surly self off to wherever Holt meant for him to sleep, but she knew he wouldn’t leave before everyone else, lest he miss something. Like a chance to nettle her.

  “Tomorrow,” Lizzie told Jeb brightly, barely able to contain her delight at his presence, “I’ll show you where I mean to keep my pony, once I get one.”

  “Tomorrow,” Holt corrected his daughter, with quiet firmness, and a sour glance at Jeb, “you will be busy studying with Miss Wakefield.”

  Jeb seemed to find something funny in her name, for he gave a desultory little snort and repeated, “Miss Wakefield,” under his breath, but still loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  Lizzie frowned in disapproval. “Polite people,” she told her uncle frankly, “do not snort.”

  Kade, having just taken a sip of coffee, was constrained to keep the stuff in his mouth long enough to swallow. His eyes danced. “You keep your uncle Jeb on the straight and narrow path for us, will you, Lizzie?” he said, when he’d managed the crisis. “It’s a big job, but I reckon you can handle it.”

  Jeb looked both annoyed and chagrined. “Sorry,” he said, addressing the apology to Lizzie and, very pointedly, to Lizzie alone.

  After that, the talk turned to cattle, and droughts, and the coming of a hard winter. Something about the caterpillars having more fur and the behavior of squirrels. Chloe was relieved that the conversation did not touch on the recent shootings, which probably would have been the main topic, if Jeb and Lizzie hadn’t been there.

  When the meal was over, Chloe and Lizzie set about doing the dishes, and Mandy and Kade said their goodbyes and left for the Triple M. Holt squired Jeb out of the kitchen, though he plainly didn’t want to go, to show him to his room.

  Chloe wished him good riddance as she swabbed a plate clean at the sink, up to her elbows in hot water and soap suds. Lizzie stood on a chair beside her, dish towel in hand, working efficiently.

  “I understand you lived in Texas before you came to the Arizona Territory,” Chloe said, because her mind kept straying after Jeb, and a change of subject seemed a good way of tugging on the leash. Besides, she was genuinely interested in Lizzie, already felt a bond growing between them.

  Lizzie nodded. “With my mama and my aunt Geneva,” she said. She was such a sturdy little thing, adult in many ways, but at the same time, delicate, a wild rose, just beginning to bud. “I didn’t know I even had a papa back then. Sure would have come in handy.”

  Chloe wasn’t about to venture into that territory, considering it to be private ground, but she was powerfully curious, just the same. People fascinated her, especially children. What complex creatures they were, playing out their secret, inner dramas. “Did your mother remarry?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t think she ever got married in the first place,” she replied sagely. “Mama said the last thing she needed was a man around, making demands and getting underfoot.”

  Chloe smiled. She could certainly empathize with that philosophy; hadn’t her own experiences borne it out, not once, but twice? “How did she earn a living?”

  “She was a seamstress,” Lizzie said matter-of-factly. “So was Aunt Geneva. We had a pretty big house in San Antonio, and sometimes they took in boarders, when the money ran low.”

  “No wonder your clothes are so fine,” Chloe remarked. Lizzie’s dress was well cut, and the fabric was of very high quality, although she was outgrowing it. “Your mother must have made them for you.”

  Again, Lizzie nodded. Looking bemused now, she stared at the darkened window over the sink, as if she were seeing something far beyond the glass, beyond even the rangelands that spread into the vast, lonely distance. “I miss Mama so much,” she confessed, in a small voice. “I mostly get by all right in the daytime, but it’s harder at night.”

  Chloe’s heart seized with sympathy. Soap suds and all, she put her arms around the little girl, held her very close for a moment. “I’m sure you do, Sweetheart,” she said. “Oh, of course you do.”

  Lizzie clung to her, tightly. “You smell like her,” she murmured. “Like flowers and rain.”

  “I don’t believe anyone has ever paid me a better compliment,” Chloe said, kissing the top of Lizzie’s head, and it was only then that she noticed Holt standing in the inside doorway, watching with sorrow in his expressive eyes and that helplessness that is peculiar to men when faced with the deeper needs of women and children.

  “Finish up there, Lizzie,” he said, as though Chloe’s notice had brought him to life. “You’ve got a lot of learning to do tomorrow.”

  Chloe gave the child a final squeeze. “I’ll manage the dishes on my own,” she said quietly. “Your papa is right. It is very important that you get some rest.”

  Lizzie had regained her dignity—Chloe suspected it never strayed very far, that indeed it was inherent to the child’s nature—and, extracting herself from her teacher’s embrace, she got down from the chair, said good night to both adults, and left the room.

  Holt walked over to the stove, poured leftover coffee into a mug, and took a measured sip.

  “Lizzie is a lovely child,” Chloe said. “Exceedingly bright, too. Teaching her will be a delight.”

  Holt nodded, but his face looked grim. “Yes,” he agreed, without looking at Chloe. “I owe you an apology, Miss Wakefield,” he went on, after a few more thoughtful draughts of coffee. “I should have told you ahead of time that Jeb would be here.”

  “Yes,” Chloe agreed, scrubbing industriously at the pot Mandy had used to boil the potatoes they’d had with supper. “You should have. But you didn’t, and your reasons were sound enough—you were concerned about Lizzie. For that reason, I will accept your regrets.”

  He gave a sheepish grin. “Thank you for understanding.”

  Chloe had little choice but to be gracious. She cared deeply for Lizzie’s welfare, for that of all her students, but there was another factor as well. Holt could have made an issue of the deception Chloe had perpetrated, by leading Jeb to believe the two of them were thinking of marriage, and he would have been justified in doing so. For some reason, he had chosen not to, and she was grateful.

  She turned the conversation in what she hoped was a safe direction. “It must have been quite a surprise to you when Lizzie showed up.”

  Holt shook his head, marveling. “That’s for sure,” he said. “If I’d known she existed, I would have brought her home long ago.”

  Chloe spoke softly. “And her mother?”

  He’
d turned solemn again. “Her mother, too.”

  “What was her name?” There she went again, stepping off the path of good manners and whacking her way through the underbrush. Little wonder she’d gotten into so much trouble in her life, plagued by curiosity as she was, not to mention wild impulses. Just then, it occurred to her that she disliked Jeb’s reckless qualities so much because they reflected her own, and the thought left her thunderstruck.

  “Her name was Olivia,” Holt answered. His eyes held an infinite sadness. “She was beautiful, full of spirit. And she was good—half-again too good for me, I can tell you— and brave to the bone.” He paused, shook his head again, took another sip of coffee. “I was such a fool back then. I thought we had all the time in the world, Olivia and I.”

  “Perhaps,” she observed, with a twinkle, wanting to ease his way a little, “you’re being a trifle too hard on yourself.”

  Holt’s grin returned, and Chloe almost wished they really were going to be married. He was so solid, so intelligent and honorable. It would have been so blessedly simple to love a man like that.

  “Thank you,” he said, with a slight bow of his head. “Before we get off the subject of fools, though—you’re aware, I suppose, that Jeb is acting like a horse’s ass because he thinks the real reason you’re here is to get better acquainted with me?”

  The pot made a clattering sound as Chloe set it on a shelf underneath the sink. “You haven’t set him straight on that, I gather?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” She knew why she hadn’t told Jeb the truth, of course; he already thought she was a liar, and confessing to something like that would prove it. But Holt’s motives baffled her.

  “As far as I can tell, my brother has had things go his way most of his life,” Holt answered mildly. “I figured a little wondering might be good for his character.”

  She smiled, relieved. “All the same,” she admitted, “I do wish I hadn’t said it in the first place. Sometimes my impulses run away with me.”

  Holt simply watched her for a long moment, and Chloe wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was, that she and Jeb weren’t as different as she would have liked to believe. “Guess that makes you human,” he said, at last. He thrust out a sigh. “If I’m going to be honest, I have to admit I enjoy being a burr under the McKettricks’ saddles now and again. Nothing admirable in it, but it’s the way of things.”

  Both Emmeline and Becky had told Chloe about the enmity between Holt and his father and brothers; but he was civil with Kade and plainly fond of Mandy, and when Jeb had been shot, he’d come to town to join the others in their vigil. Perhaps, Chloe reflected, he cared more for his family than he knew.

  When Chloe didn’t speak, Holt went on. “I guess it’s not Jeb’s fault, or Kade’s or Rafe’s, that the old man didn’t want to be bothered with me,” he said, without a trace of self-pity.

  For a moment, Chloe wanted to put her arms around Holt, just as she’d done with Lizzie earlier, but of course she refrained, because embracing him wouldn’t be the same. Not at all the same.

  She bit her lip, unsure of what to say.

  Holt smiled. “Now that we’ve discussed my family,” he said, “let’s talk about yours. Becky says your people live in Sacramento. What do they think of your being way out here in the wild country, all on your own?”

  Chloe gave a rueful sigh. “I’m sure they wouldn’t approve.”

  He looked troubled. “They don’t know where you are?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “No. Mother and Mr. Wakefield were traveling in Europe, last I heard, so it wasn’t as if I could get word to them easily.” She folded the dish towel, laid it aside. “Besides, they pretty much washed their hands of me when I went to Tombstone against their wishes.” When I married Jack.

  “You ought to write to them or send a telegram,” Holt reasoned. “They’ve probably cooled off by now. Most likely, they’re fretting.”

  Suddenly, there were tears in Chloe’s eyes; she blinked them back furiously. “What would I say? That they were right, and I should have stayed home and crocheted edgings for pillowcases for the rest of my natural life? That I’ve made a spectacular mess of everything—again?”

  “It’s not hard to put myself in their place,” Holt said quietly. “If that happened with Lizzie, I’d sure as hell want to hear from her, no matter how angry I might be, or how much of a ‘mess’ she might have made.”

  Chloe folded her arms, gazed at the floor for a long time, digesting this. When she looked up at Holt again, she heard herself ask, “Do you think Jeb is resting comfortably?”

  Holt’s gaze was level, and she knew he was seeing more than she wanted to reveal. “His pride’s smarting. He’s tired, and he’s in some pain, but he’ll be his old devil-take-the-hindmost self again soon enough. It would take more than a bullet in the arm to bring down anybody with Angus McKettrick’s blood in his veins.” He paused, rubbed the back of his neck, chuffed out a sigh. “Chloe, we’ve been beating around the bush long enough. I think it’s a mistake not to tell Jeb that Barrett confronted you in that cemetery, and that your ex-husband is most likely the one who shot him. When he finds out— and he will find out—he’s going to be furious that you kept him in the dark.”

  “I couldn’t tell him,” Chloe said, with quiet, plaintive dread. “Holt, you know what would happen—Jeb would drag himself onto a horse and go right out after Barrett, and ten to one, he’d get himself killed in the process!”

  Holt looked patently miserable, and he sighed again. “I know the reasoning; I’ve been over it a hundred times with Angus and the boys. It still bothers me because I know how I’d feel in his place—mad as a rooster trapped under a bucket.” He regarded her solemnly for a long moment. “Jeb will be ready to strip our hides, but you’re the one he’s going to blame, Chloe. There’s a good chance he’ll never forgive you.”

  “He’s already written me off,” Chloe said, full of despairing conviction. “Oh, he doesn’t mind a game of checkers once in a while, or a good argument, but you saw how he acted tonight. He can hardly tolerate my presence.”

  A rueful grin crooked one corner of Holt’s mouth. “Like I said earlier, his pride’s hurt. Right now, he’s probably lying up there wondering if you and I are down here planning a honeymoon. Believe me, Chloe, if he’d written you off, wounded or not, he’d be sparking some other woman right now.”

  “And he’d be better off,” Chloe said sadly. “If it hadn’t been for me, Jack wouldn’t have shot him.” She felt the blood drain from her face and had to stiffen her knees to stay upright. “Lizzie’s aunt would be alive, too.”

  Holt approached her then, laid his hands on her shoulders. He’d just opened his mouth to speak when the door opened, and Jeb stepped into the room.

  His blue gaze skewered Chloe. “You certainly are resilient,” he said coldly. “I’ll give you that.”

  Holt took a step back, let his hands fall to his sides. “Jeb—”

  “I’ll sleep in the bunkhouse,” Jeb said.

  Holt’s jaw tightened. “You can sleep in the chicken coop, for all I care,” he said, “but you’ll hear me out first.”

  Chloe looked from one man to the other, too stricken to say anything at all, which, she concluded distractedly, was probably good since she usually said the wrong thing.

  Jeb leaned his uninjured shoulder against the doorframe, and Chloe knew it was because his strength was ebbing. She wanted, incomprehensibly, to go to him, try to hold him up somehow, but the contempt in his face kept her frozen in place. “All right, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said acidly, “say your piece.”

  Chloe interlaced her fingers and braced herself, while Holt glared at Jeb. “Chloe has no intention of marrying me,” Holt said. “She just wanted to make you jealous, that’s all. But here’s where you’d best do some fancy listening, little brother—if I thought she’d have me, I’d take her for a wife as soon as I could round up a preacher.”

  Jeb ope
ned his mouth, closed it again.

  Chloe thought she’d swoon and gripped the back of a chair to support herself.

  “You’d have to wait for the divorce to come through,” Jeb said evenly.

  “Would I?” Holt shot back. “To hear you tell it, there never was a marriage in the first place.”

  Jeb had gone a shade paler, but it was rage, not shock, Chloe knew, that was inhibiting his circulation. His gaze shifted to her, searing. “Do you want him, Chloe?” he asked dangerously.

  She bit her lower lip, cast an apologetic glance at Holt, and blushed hard. “No,” she said, in a very small voice.

  Holt pulled that McKettrick trick again, smiling behind his eyes. But there was sadness in him, too.

  Jeb looked triumphant, until Chloe spoke again.

  “But I wish I did.”

  An ominous silence fell. Then, somewhere in the front of the house, a clock chimed, sounding ten ponderous strokes that seemed to echo through the walls.

  “Time I turned in,” Holt said, and walked right out of the kitchen, forcing Jeb to step aside or be run over. Chloe had barely restrained herself from grabbing at Holt’s sleeve as he passed.

  “What the hell did you mean by that?” Jeb demanded, when he and Chloe were alone. “You wish you wanted him?”

  Chloe folded her arms, now that she was fairly sure her legs wouldn’t give out. “Exactly what I said,” she replied.

  Jeb’s eyes were round with indignation and disbelief. “Why?”

  “Because he’s a grown man,” Chloe said, blushing again. “Not some hotheaded—”

  “Kid?” Jeb finished for her, in a scathing undertone. “You seemed to think I was as much a man as anybody the other night, in your bed—”

  “Stop!” Chloe cried, putting her hands to her ears.

  He crossed to her, grasped her right hand, and wrenched it down. “Did you wish you wanted Holt then, Chloe?” he rasped.