by Eli Easton
Robby clutched the blanket. “I’m sorry to say I’m still under the weather. Please give my regrets to the others, but I think I’ll rest up today.”
Marcy bit her lips and looked ready to cry. “Please, Miss Fairchild. Please at least come to breakfast. Otherwise, I fear Pa-Pa will be . . .” She swallowed. “. . . very disappointed.”
Robby was caught, and he knew it. He couldn’t ask Marcy to do his dirty work for him, and Trace had warned him not to anger Pa-Pa. He wasn’t going to get away with hiding out on the porch.
Robby gave her a sweet smile. “Very well, Marcy. I’ll come to breakfast.”
“Thank you.” Marcy gave a relieved sigh. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “We’re just sittin’ down now, and we made a whole heap of food. Surely you must be hungry, what with skippin’ supper last night.”
Robby was, in fact, starved. His stomach reminded him of that fact with a very unladylike rumble. Marcy pretended not to hear it and left him alone.
After checking the pale green dress over one more time and making sure his bosom was in the right place, Robby left the porch. He found the Crabtrees at the breakfast table. Pa-Pa was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the day before, the gray leather vest and the shirt with the fancy white bow at his throat. All the others looked similarly polished up. Apparently, this was a second attempt at the family meal Robby had dodged last night. And no one around the table looked happy about it.
Robby put on his most charming smile. “I’m so sorry to keep you all waiting,” he said as he stood in the doorway.
Pa-Pa rose from his chair. “Good mornin’, Miss Fairchild.” There was a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Now you come sit right here by me. Got a chair and a plate all ready for ya.”
“Oh, how lovely!” Robby walked gracefully to the empty seat. The table was laden with food. None of the dishes matched—there was a mix of cracked china, wooden trenches, and tin plates. But there were pancakes and eggs, stacks of toast and gobs of butter. Robby’s stomach hurt, it was so empty. Dear Lord, when was the last time he’d eaten a meal?
He waited politely by his chair, but Pa-Pa plopped back down and no one else appeared interested. So Robby tugged his own chair out gently and sat with exaggerated care. “Please accept my apologies for last night. But I was simply—”
His words were drowned out in a clatter as everyone around the table attacked the food. It was as though the act of Robby sitting down had been a gun fired at a race. Serving dishes were snatched up like they contained the last morsels of food on earth.
He watched in amazement as Wayne forked six pancakes in one jab and raked them on to his plate, breaking up the pancake beneath and sending hunks of it onto the plain white tablecloth. He shoved the platter at the oldest boy, Billy, who grabbed it and dragged nearly as many pancakes onto his plate, ignoring the exploding crumbs.
A younger boy spilled a glass of milk that went sloshing everywhere. Pieces of scrambled egg went flying as two kids fought over a serving bowl.
“Will you slow down, you idjits!” Pa-Pa bellowed.
Everyone froze and looked at him.
“Now what did we talk about yesterday?” Pa-Pa barked. “Do ya want Miss Fairchild to think we’re a bunch of heathens? Christ on a crutch.”
The gathered ensemble went back to loading their plates slowly. The clanking of silverware became tolerable.
Robby kept a smile plastered to his face. His gaze went to Clovis. His intended had been put as far away down the table as it was possible to be. He looked even hairier at the dinner table than he had on the porch the night before. He reminded Robby of a bear with his huge, rounded shoulders, massive hands, and that hirsute pelt. His gaze was cast down at his plate and he shoveled a huge bite of potatoes into his mouth.
“Would ya care for some eggs, Miss Fairchild?” Marcy asked with exaggerated politeness. She leaned over Robby’s shoulder with a fresh bowl.
Pa-Pa nodded at Marcy approvingly and stuffed half a pancake into his mouth from the end of a jackknife.
Robby thanked her demurely and put some eggs on his plate. “This looks wonderful. My mother made eggs, bacon, and pancakes every Sunday.”
There was an awkward silence around the table. The Crabtrees looked at one another.
“We don’t have any bacon, I’m afraid,” said Marcy nervously.
“Oh. I didn’t mean—I don’t need bacon. This is more than enough.” Robby sought to change the subject. “Though I did notice you had a whole corral of red pigs near the barn. I’ve never seen pigs like that.”
There were more dodgy looks all around.
“Them hogs ain’t for eatin’,” Wayne said flatly.
Robby blinked. “Oh. Yes, I see.”
“Them’s a special breed of hog all the way from El Paso del Norte,” Pa-Pa said proudly.
“Ah. Well. What do you do with them?”
No one would meet Robby’s eye.
“Never mind them red hogs,” Pa-Pa said testily. “They ain’t got nothin’ to do with nothin’. Now, did ya get a gander at our beeves? The cattle is what makes this here ranch. Got over three hundred head!”
“My stars!” Robby exclaimed. “That is an awful lot, isn’t it?”
Pa-Pa went on to explain the type of cattle they had—mostly longhorns, what months they drove the beeves to market, and a lot of other details about the ranch business as he ate his breakfast with his hunting knife and talked with his mouth full.
Robby had the feeling Pa-Pa was trying to convince Rowena of the family’s wealth so that she’d want to marry-up as soon as possible. He listened politely and cooed in appreciation. There were lots of “You don’t says” and “Well, I nevers!” Robby figured he might as well butter Pa-Pa up while he had the chance.
But he wondered: What were they hiding about those pigs?
Maybe they fed unwelcome visitors to them? Maybe the bones of past mail-order brides were buried in the muck of the pig pen.
He ate daintily, but everyone else was being so barbarous, he felt safe having a plate full of food. He felt much better for it.
The table manners in the house were truly, truly appalling. If a piece of food didn’t pass inspection, or was dislodged from a plate or bowl, it was tossed over the shoulder and onto the floor. There were no napkins present, and fingers were wiped on the tablecloth or clothes. Gobs of butter ended up in strange places. Wayne had a habit of wiping his fingers on his shirt under the armpits, which made Robby want to gag. There were more belches than spoken words and frequent orders of “Marcy get more of this” or “Emmie, can’t you see we need more of that.” Marcy and Emmie never got a chance to sit down for a second. In fact, they didn’t even have places at the table. It was as though they were servants.
Robby took it all in and said nothing.
He could see why no woman familiar with this family would willingly sign on. The real Rowena Fairchild, bless her lying little heart, would have been aghast and agog. Lively Rowena had dodged a bullet there, she and her little bank officer.
Honestly, Robby felt sorry for Marcy and Emmie. In the home he grew up in, his mother and sisters had done all the cooking and cleaning. But they’d sat for meals like everyone else. And no one made a big mess expecting them to clean it up. And this was with Pa-Pa’s warning earlier for everyone to behave. Robby shuddered to think how they’d act if he wasn’t there.
Wayne reached a long arm across the table for some butter that was in front of Robby. His shirt sleeve was pushed up and Robby noticed a large bruise on his forearm. Curious, his gaze went around the table and he saw bruises, some small and some not so small, on everyone except Missy and Baby George. And Clovis, because he was so hairy you could hardly see any skin at all.
Strange. Trace had likely been telling the truth about Marcy and Emmie’s bruises then. But either this was the most accident-prone family in the world, or ranching was a much more physically onerous life than farming had been. Good thing Robby had no
plans to stick around.
Pa-Pa finished eating. He gave off a long belch, wiped his jackknife on the tablecloth, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Then he pushed back from his seat and patted his belly. “You get enough to eat?” he asked Robby.
“Yes, Pa-Pa. The food was delicious. Thank you, Marcy and Emmie,” Robby said pointedly.
Pa-Pa went on cheerfully, “Now me and the boys have some work to take care of this mornin’. But you, me, and Clovis will ride into town this afternoon and take care of this marriage business. Preacher knows to be expectin’ us sometime this week.”
Robby’s stomach threatened to cast up the eggs he’d eaten. He glanced down the table at Clovis. He was done eating, his plate practically licked clean. He gazed straight ahead, picking his teeth with a bit of wood, but Robby got the feeling he was listening.
“I, uh, well, I’ve been thinkin’ on that,” Robby said in as calm a voice as he could muster. He turned a sad gaze on Pa-Pa, letting his lower lip tremble. “We didn’t discuss the weddin’ per se in our letters. Which is entirely my fault. But, you see, the Fairchild family has certain traditions, and seeing as a girl only weds once in her life, I hope you’ll be so generous as to accommodate me.”
Pa-Pa’s nose crinkled like he’d smelled something bad. “What do ya mean? What kindy accom-y-date? You want a fancy dress? I already paid two hundred dollars for your trip out here!”
“Oh, no!” Robby insisted. “It’s not about money at all. I don’t need anything fancy. Why, I’m just a simple girl at heart.”
Pa-Pa looked relieved to hear it.
“But, you see,” Robby went on, thinking fast. “It’s always been a Fairchild tradition to get married on . . . on the Ides of August. Yes, that’s right. You’ve heard of the Ides of March?”
Everyone around the table looked at Robby like he’d grown two heads. He plowed on. “Well, the Ides of March is March fifteenth, and it’s considered very lucky, you see. But the Ides of August is August first, and it’s the most propitious time of the entire year. Why, all Fairchild brides have been married on August first!”
Robby was pulling all this out of his behind. But it was only July sixteenth. Hopefully, please God, he’d be out of there long before August came around.
Pa-Pa glowered. “Gal, that’s two weeks away!”
“I know! Just enough time for us to get to know one another. Why, I couldn’t have planned it better.”
Pa-Pa’s face grew redder. “Now see here, this is a workin’ ranch. And that means we gotta work. We need to get this weddin’ business over with so’s we can get back to it. We ain’t got time for sittin’ and chatttin’ for two weeks.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from work,” Robby said with a smile. “Please. Carry on as you normally would. And I’m happy to help out as well.”
Pa-Pa slapped the table with his hand, making a loud bang. “No, now, I ain’t gonna be strung along for no girlish whim. We’re gettin’ this done today and that’s final!”
It wasn’t lost on Robby that Marcy and Emmie both flinched. His own heart pounded in his chest, and his face grew hot. He sat silently, struggling to maintain his sweet Rowena act while both fear and, yes, anger rose up inside him. Being nice wasn’t working with this old bully. Who did he think he was, trying to intimidate a young woman? Robby was sorely tempted to punch him in the face.
“I do believe the bride must give legal consent,” Robby said stiffly.
Chapter Nine
Pa-Pa’s jaw dropped open and he looked pole-axed. But before he could say anything, there was a sound from the end of the table.
“No.”
The voice was quiet but firm. Robby turned his head and saw Clovis slowly get to his feet. He looked at Pa-Pa, his face a mottled red. “Iffen Miss Fairchild wants to be wed on those eye-dees, she should be. That’s the least we can do, seein’ as how she come all this way, Pa.”
He stared at Pa-Pa. Pa-Pa stared back. It went on for several minutes, like a gunfight, only with glares instead of bullets. Robby could see Pa-Pa wanted to argue. But something held him back. Probably he was still trying to impress Miss Fairchild. And there was that lingering notion of legal consent.
Finally, Pa-Pa swallowed hard and his face relaxed. “Well, now, I was just tryin’ to get things accomplished around here. Iffen it has to be August first, I guess that ain’t the end of the world. But not one day later! And you all—” He pointed a finger around the table. “Ya need to be on your best behavior for two whole weeks. And no you-know-what!”
Robby blinked. That wasn’t ominous at all. No what? Dancing naked in the living room? Cooking human body parts?
Smacking around the wives?
Without another glance at Robby, Pa-Pa left the table and everyone else scattered. Within seconds only Marcy, Emmie, Robby, and baby George were left. The baby sat in a beautiful homemade high chair with egg all over his face, chatting happily.
Robby stood and took in the room. The table and a two-foot perimeter around it looked like a war zone.
Marcy folded her hands on the back of a chair and gave Robby a curious look. “Clovis must like ya. I ain’t never seen him go against Pa-Pa like that.”
“Well, he ought to,” Emmie spoke up, wiping George’s face and hands. “He’ll be a married man soon.”
“Well, Roy’s been married, and he don’t do that. And Wayne hardly ever.”
Emmie gave Marcy a warning look. She picked up George and bounced him on one hip. Robby had four younger siblings, so he’d held, bathed, and diapered his share of babies. But it had been a long time. George looked to be about a year old, and he was adorable, with fat cheeks, fine brown hair, and big brown eyes.
Robby imagined he looked a little like his Uncle Trace.
“You can rest up a spell if you like,” Emmie told Robby. “We won’t all sit down again till supper time. But when you’re ready for lunch, let us know and we’ll fix ya a plate.”
It was a good excuse to go back to the porch and escape the unholy mess left by breakfast, and Robby knew he should take it. The less he was seen the better. But sitting around stewing didn’t sound like fun. Plus, he’d feel strange lazing around when everyone else was working.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Robby said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I can’t cook to save my life, but I’m happy to wash dishes. Or I can help with the baby. What do you say, George?” Robby went to Emmie and chucked the baby’s chin.
“Oh, that would be a big help,” Emmie said sincerely. She dumped George into Robby’s arms. His warm weight brought back memories, as did the sweet scent of his hair. George was a quiet, good-natured little soul. Robby was surprised how much he enjoyed holding an infant again. They chatted while Marcy and Emmie cleaned up. And he was almost sorry when George fell asleep and Emmie took him to put him down.
They were just finishing up the dishes when Clovis stepped into the kitchen, hat in his hands. He gazed studiously at the floor.
“Miss Fairchild, I thought—um, since you’ll be on the porch longer than we figured, you’ll be needin’ a place to hang your clothes. I set somethin’ up in there for ya.” Without waiting for a response, Clovis ducked out.
Good Lord. You’d have thought he’d turn to stone if he so much as looked at Robby.
“Thank you?” Robby said to the empty space.
“Let’s go see,” Emmie said, her voice eager.
On the back porch they found a rustic-looking clothes rack. Two sturdy forked branches held a smooth wooden dowel between them. The bottoms of the branches were set into round discs sliced from a tree trunk, still wearing its bark. Pegs were set every few inches in the dowel. It was an interesting-looking piece. Robby suspected it might have fetched a fair price in New York.
“Well, that’s thoughtful,” he said with some surprise.
“Clovis is quiet, but he’s a good man,” Marcy said.
“Can we help you unpack?” Emmie eyed Robby’s trunk with longing.
“All right,” he said with a welcoming smile. Dear Lord, let it be all right.
Marcy and Emmie were enamored by the gowns in the trunk—three silks, a fine summer linen with braid trim, a heavy brocade, and a pink summer dress. They didn’t seem to notice when Robby picked up his small leather case with his makeup and grooming supplies and casually placed it under the bed.
They hung the gowns and petticoats on the rod and folded camisoles, gloves, and unmentionables, including a lone corset which Robby refused to wear. They sighed over the fabric and colors like they were the clothes of a queen. And Rowena’s clothes, while fine, were nothing like the sequined and lacy confections the rich ladies in New York wore.
“Is the ranch not doing very well?” Robby asked, as delicately as he could.
Marcy and Emmie looked at each other.
“The ranch gets along fine, don’t worry your head about that,” Marcy assured him.
“Yeah. Pa-Pa’s real good about puttin’ money away,” Emmie agreed wistfully, still eyeing the dresses.
“Hmm. Maybe he puts too much away, then,” Robby said. Or rather, Rowena said it. The character Robby was playing put a hand on her hip and cocked a haughty eyebrow. Rowena had very definite opinions on the subject of clothing. And of women too, apparently.
Emmie blushed and smoothed a hand down her faded brown dress. “Pa-Pa don’t like to spend on gee-gaws and what he calls fripperies.”
Marcy looked down self-consciously and folded her hand over a badly frayed cuff. She and Emmie had been wearing those same dresses since Robby arrived. Which meant, like Pa-Pa’s gray vest and white shirt, they were probably the best things they owned, worn to show off for Miss Fairchild. And that was a tragedy right there.