by Tia Dani
She glanced down at her own clothes and said, "I feel like I've been run over by a train." Her hair, which Sarah had worked so hard to put up this morning, was totally destroyed. Several pins caught in the curls were hanging around her face. And her skirt was a mass of wrinkles.
Matthew no longer struggled, and she lifted her head to see what was wrong. He still lay on his back staring at her with those brown eyes that made her heart do funny things. Like skipping a few beats.
"You know, Libby," he drawled. "I don't know what to think. You're like no woman I've ever known. If I’d treated any other woman like I've treated you, they’d be crying and screaming at the top of their lungs."
Libby shrugged, she wasn't sure, but she had the weirdest feeling he was apologizing for more than what happened on the bed. "I'm not like other women. Besides, you didn't do anything I can't handle."
He chuckled. "I thought you said you felt like you'd been run over by a train. Nobody I know can handle a train."
"True," she conceded, "but at the time, I wasn't thinking about the train." She glanced at the deep indentation they had made in the mattress and added with a dead-pan voice. "I only thought of it after you got off me."
His roar of laughter echoed around the room.
"You know," she said, purposely using his same words. "You should smile more often. It's nice."
His face reddened slightly, but his smile remained. Rising from the bed, he held out a hand. "I'll try and remember the next time you're yelling at me."
"I never yell. I use a lot of emphasis when it's necessary to get my point across." She reached out and took the hand he offered. Her knee collided with the slop-basin. The porcelain bowl tottered on the edge, and both made a dive for it. Their hands met around the bowl, his over hers.
This time, as their hands touched, Libby felt strength and warmth all the way to her toes. Unable to help herself, she shivered. Slowly, as if drawn by some unseen force, she raised her head and gazed into his eyes. They darkened, turning to a smoldering shade of brown. Neither said anything, and for once, Libby was grateful her quick thinking failed her. Looking at him was good enough. For now.
Riotous male laughter, reverberating from downstairs, broke the spell, and Libby slid her hands from beneath his and stood on shaky legs. "I suppose we should go downstairs." She headed toward the small mirror hanging on the wall facing the door while gathering as many pins as she could from her hair. "I need to try to salvage this mop."
"Do you need help?"
Though he didn't move, his voice sounded deeper and slightly huskier. "No," she responded, annoyed at how her voice shook when she spoke to him. "I can manage."
She heard the basin slide under the bed, and shortly after, the quilt whispered as it slid across the bed. He was straightening up. Libby forced herself to concentrate on getting her hair into some sort of normalcy, but had little success. Every pin she replaced came tumbling back out. "Shoot," she mumbled around the pins stuck in her mouth. "Heck with it. I'll brush it back and tie it up in a ponytail." Noticing a strange-looking tool lying beside the dresser she picked it up and examined it with interest.
"I don’t think you want to do that."
"I can't go downstairs looking like this." She dropped the tool and lifted a strand of hair and flipped it behind her ear. "I’ll..." She pulled the dark green satin ribbon out of her pocket. "Tie it around my hair."
"I thought," he said, "you were going down to the barn and cut some poor horse's tail off and add it to your hair."
"You're joking?"
"No. I saw you holding Luke's currying clipper-comb and I thought—"
She picked up the funny-looking tool. "This?"
"Yes, it's something Luke's designed. It's to curry and trim a horse's mane and tail. I don't think he's going to have much luck with it, though. He can't keep the blade sharp. So, when you said something about a horse tail."
"Not horse tail," she corrected. "Ponytail."
"Pony tail, I naturally thought—"
"Honestly, Matthew, credit me with some common sense."
Matthew watched her brush her hair back with Luke's brush then tie it with the ribbon. "Interesting term. Pony tail."
Once again she must have used a phrase not in existence yet. "I sort of made it up. I doubt if anyone but Dad has heard it." Libby crossed her fingers with the lie. Whoever made up the term 'ponytail' she hoped they'd forgive her.
He didn't seem to notice her hesitation he was too busy fingering the ends of her blonde hair. "You know," he said, "it does look like a tail in a way." He smiled one of those heart-melting smiles of his. "Can you flick it like a horse when flies bother them?"
"Sure." Tossing her head quickly to the left, her hair, all eighteen inches of it tied back in the ribbon, flipped out of his fingers and hit him square in the face.
Matthew burst out laughing and stepped back, rubbing his nose and chin. "I'll remember your trick the next time I get too close."
She grinned and started for the door. "You do that...fly."
Chapter Eighteen
"It don't mean a lick ya' cain't cook. 'Yore still worth marryin'."
Libby blinked at the short-statured man standing in front of her, hat in hand as she'd entered the barn. He appeared so suddenly she wasn't prepared for him, let alone for what he said. "I beg your pardon?"
He grinned widely, showing several missing teeth. "The name's Harold T. Bancock, formerly of Indiana." He held out a stubby-fingered hand. "Ya willin' ta git hitched?"
She mentally groaned. She'd been looking for Luke the past fifteen minutes, both in the house and out. Ever since she'd come downstairs, he seemed to have disappeared. During her search, she'd managed to find five other men, every one of them interested in proposing, stating they didn't mind at all her short-comings. Never in her life had she experienced this much attention and acceptance from the male race. It was a little unnerving. She took the offered hand and shook it. "I...I—"
"I reckon," her latest suitor said, interrupting her. "I 'twas a bit fast. But one cain't be too early for the worm."
"Worm?" Libby smiled. He definitely had a way with words.
"Yes'm. I reckoned ta be the first in line."
"Oh, I see. Actually, Mr. Bancock—"
"Harold T., Miss."
"Harold T., I'm afraid you're not the first."
"Tarnation." The barrel-chested man removed his hat and slapped it angrily against his leg. "Henson, beat me to it, didn't he? He done already asked ya'. I knew I should'a hog-tied that fool to the hitchin' post."
Libby couldn't say a word as she stared at the man's bald head. She'd never seen such a slick cranium. Harold T. didn't even have eyebrows.
He noticed her staring and grinned. He rubbed his bald head and stated proudly, "You like it? I hear women're partial ta a man with a bald head. I shine it, ya' know."
"I...I..." Libby struggled to keep her laughter contained. "It's definitely unusual, Mr. Bancock—" When he opened his mouth to correct her again, she straight away added, "I mean, Harold T. Have you always been without...er...hair on your head?"
"Naw, just since I saw your uncle's body."
She had no idea what he was talking about. "Uncle? What uncle?"
He frowned at her. "Yore late uncle. Andrew Strammon."
"Oh, him." She blushed, remembering Katherine's husband. She gave Bancock an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Andrew Strammon isn't my immediate uncle. He...he's a distant relative."
"Distant or not. After what them thievin' red varmints did ta him, I decided ta be prepared." He rubbed his bald head vigorously. "I shaved my head, so they'll leave me alone. I hear they ain't interested in them what don't have hair."
Libby bristled. One of her best friends, and a college roommate, had been half-Indian. She hated it whenever someone called Indians disrespectful names. "Indians are not varmints, Mr. Bancock, they are people."
"The hell they are."
Now was not the time to get into a roarin
g argument. Deftly, she tried getting his attention off of Indians. "Harold T., are you saying you deliberately shaved your head?"
"Yep! Shave it every morning, right along with my face." He ran a hand over his face and head. Sure feels kinda nice not havin' any hair. You want to feel it?" Bending over he tapped his head. "Go ahead. It's smooth as a baby's hind-end."
Libby stared at his shiny bald head, noticing the bony ridges and indentions. "Uh...no, thank you, Harold, that's not necessary. I can tell it's smooth."
He raised his head. "Henson's done the same. Only his ain't as smooth as mine. He don't put oil on it like I do."
"Henson? Oh, the man you spoke of earlier." She looked around the newly built barn. Several men whom she didn't know milled around a make-shift stage at the other end. "Is he one of those men?" Forewarned another wanted to propose, Libby straightened her shoulders. She'd be prepared, especially if it was another bald proposal.
"Nope. I thought I'd be the first."
Tim entered the barn, carrying his fiddle. He joined them. "Libby, have you seen, Luke?"
She sighed. "I was about to ask you the same thing. If you find him before I do, will you please tell him I would like to speak with him? It's important."
"Sure will." Tim looked at Harold T. Bancock, taking in his bald head with a smile. "What are you doin' here, Baldy? I thought you didn't like these sorts of things."
Bancock snorted. "I don't! When I heard about a new woman in these parts, I thought I'd come and give her a look see. Ya' know it's always worth a try." He nodded toward Libby. "She's shore a purty thang, ain't she?"
Libby felt uneasy with Harold T's flattery. His comment sounded more like the banter at a horse auction. Tim grinned at her.
"She's purty all right," he admitted. "But, I'd better warn you. She's not available."
"Why?" Bancock looked at her with interest. "Is she taken already?"
"Yep." Tim grinned even wider. "It's a matter of time before it comes about though."
Libby opened her mouth to disagree, but Bancock spoke up first.
"Dang, I shoulda known. Who is it? Is it Luke?" He ran a hand over his shiny head. "Ya lookin' for him? Gonna accept his proposal?"
"Uh...," Libby hesitated, unsure how to answer. Whatever she said would put her in an awkward situation. If she said yes, then she'd have to put up with Luke's teasing. If she said no, then she'd have to deal with more proposals.
He must have decided for himself what her answer was, for Bancock gave her a good-natured smile and patted her shoulder. "If'n ya decide Luke ain't good enough for ya', Miss Libby, let me know. Even if Matt says ya cain't cook worth a damn, I'd still marry ya'."
"What?" Libby forgot her marriage problems and made a grab for Harold T.'s arm as he turned to leave. He had mentioned her cooking before. So had several others. Something was going on here. "Did you say Matthew said I couldn't cook?"
He chuckled. "Uh huh. And he told me you couldn't sew, neither. He said I'd be better off lookin' for someone else to git hitched to."
"Oh, he did, did he?" Libby spun on the ball of one foot, searching faces. "Tim, where's Mr. Johnson and the two Miller brothers?"
Tim looked at her worriedly. "I think they're out back. What do you want to see them for?"
"There's something I need to ask them." All these proposals were beginning to make sense. She should have wondered why complete strangers knew about her faults so readily. "Would you please go find them?"
"Uh..." Tim hesitated then shrugged. "All right. I'll get them."
"Thank you." Libby waited until Tim walked out the door before asking, "Harold T., how long have you known Matthew Domé?"
"Quite a spell. I've been in the area for going on ten years. Hensen and me served with Matt in the volunteers for awhile. Ain't a finer man, if'n you ask me."
Libby wasn't sure she'd agree, but she nodded anyway to keep him happy.
"I found them." Tim was back almost immediately. "They were heading for the barn on their own."
Folding her arms across her chest, Libby waited for all five men to stand in front of her. When she knew she had their complete attention, she inquired, "Gentlemen, did any of you happen to speak with Matthew Domé before approaching me with your marriage proposal?"
* * *
Matthew frowned at the voluptuous, dark-haired woman leaning against him as if she couldn't go another step without his help. She held an eight-month-old baby in her arms. Four children, not counting James who was right in the thick of things, played tag around them. The kids scrambled over and under the farm wagon.
"Oh, Matt, I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along." She gave a breathy sigh. "They do need a father. I was afraid we'd not be able to come. You can't imagine how hard it is to take care of all the farm chores with five children hanging on you every minute."
He looked into Harriet Wilson's unusually blue eyes smiling warmly, and he suggested noncommittally, "Maybe you'll find a father for them at the dance. There's going to be quite a few eligible men. Most of them are hoping to find a wife."
"I know. Luke told me they might be here." She sighed again. "I can't marry just anyone, Matt. After all, I do have to think of the children."
Matthew watched the two dark-haired boys, age seven and five, now rolling happily in the dirt with James. Twin girls, spitting images of their mother, around the age of four were sitting on the ground calling out to the boys to take turns. "If you asked me, they could get along with anyone."
Harriet adjusted the baby who whimpered and tugged at the bodice of her dress. "I suppose, but I have to be careful."
The baby's tiny fist suddenly grabbed a handful of material and pulled. Several buttons came loose from the frayed material. Harriet laughed and patted at his hand. "Now, Mark, be a good boy." She looked up at Matthew and smiled apologetically, making no effort to rebutton her bodice. "He's such a hungry baby. Always ready to eat. Like most men."
Matthew nodded, clearly understanding her meaning. Her breast, which pressed against his arm when she leaned into him, felt taut with milk. It could be his for the taking if he wanted it. With or without marriage. Surprisingly, it didn't seem to do anything to him at all. Not like it would have several weeks ago.
And he knew why. Since the night he'd carried Libby Strammon back to the house, he wasn't interested in any other woman's free offerings. Not after he'd felt Libby's own breast against his arm and had the feeling shoot clear to his groin. Nothing else could compare, he thought, looking at the half-opened bodice waiting for him. Not even Harriet Wilson's well-endowed chest. Now...if it were Libby who freely offered her breast to him, he might—"
"Mr. Domé, I'd like a word with you."
Matthew jerked around like a naughty boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar. The very person he was thinking about descended upon him in a fine rage. He swallowed once, fighting against backing up a bit from her oncoming attack. Even angry she stirred his senses. "You want to speak to me?"
"Yes, now." She stormed up to him and yanked on his arm. She nodded to Harriet and muttered a sharp, "Excuse us, please." Without waiting for a reply, she pulled him around the wagon.
Having a vague idea what had gotten her temper up, Matthew went willingly. He ignored Harriet's gasp of surprise and followed Libby as she headed toward the away from the barnyard. "Where are we going?"
"Someplace where we can talk without being overheard."
Turning his head so he could watch her as they walked, Matthew concentrated more on her breasts. They offered a bit more than a handful and were perfectly proportional to the rest of her. "Why?" he asked, more for keeping his hands where they belonged than where they wanted to be.
"Because I'm going to yell at you, and I don't want anyone to overhear it when I do."
They were beyond hearing range. Matthew dug in his heels. Her hand slipped from off his arm, and she turned around to grab him again. He raised both hands and backed away. "Huh uh," he said, trying hard to ke
ep the laughter from his voice. "I'm not going to take another step until you tell me what this is about. If all you're going to do is yell at me, I want to at least know why."
She frowned at him. "You know, you creep, you're the one who started it all. So come on, move it."
Even though he knew what creep meant now, it didn't seem to bother him. He shook his head again. "Nope. I'm not moving an inch until you tell me."
"Matthew." When she saw he wasn't budging, she stomped her foot and blurted, "It's what you've been saying to those men."
"What men?" he asked innocently, knowing full well who she meant. He'd wondered how long it would take her to figure out he'd been the one doing the talking.
"You know which men. The ones who have been after me to marry them ever since you left the house."
"Oh, those men."
"Matthew. I swear, if you don't stop doing this, I'm going to smack you across the head." She took a step toward him and lifted her hand.
He grabbed it and held if firmly between both of his. "All right," he said grinning. "I'll stop. I told them you weren't interested in marriage because—"
"I heard differently. They said you brought up the subject of marriage. In fact, Mr. Johnson, bless his heart, hadn't even considered asking me, until you said it might be a good idea."
"It was." He looked at her. "How many proposals have you had? Five?"
"I've had six, but these last five are the ones I'm—"
"Six?" Matthew tightened his grip on her hand. He hadn't figured on anyone else asking her, at least not yet. "Who's the sixth one?" The idea someone would really want to marry her caused his gut to twist into knots. "How in the hell," he yelled, "am I going to keep you from getting married if—"
"Stop yelling."
"You're the one—" Matthew stopped when he saw her frown deepen. He realized he was yelling. He cleared his voice and said softer, "Now, what were we talking about?"
"We were discussing why you told those five men to propose to me."
He wanted to correct her and say they were talking about the sixth man, but didn't. He wouldn't get anywhere until she was satisfied with her own questions. "I didn't tell them to propose to you, I only gave them the idea to propose."