Blackstone's Bride

by Bronwyn Williams

  Jed didn’t bother with the sweet talk, he simply acted. Got up when he wanted to, exercised that leg of his whenever he felt like it, slipped outside without even asking her. It was a wonder he hadn’t been caught the other day, with Hector sitting right there on the porch, smoking his pipe and looking at her in a way she still found puzzling. Almost as if he were considering if it was worth the trouble to keep her there.

  Perhaps…

  No. Her first plan was still the safest. She might not have much experience in matters of the heart, but even she could see the way Varnelle looked whenever his name was mentioned. She was no real threat—for heaven’s sake, she was years older than Hector, but if Varnelle perceived her as a threat, then it was in the girl’s best interest to help them get away.

  She heard the door squeak open and there he was, just as she was getting ready to take his bathwater to the bedroom. Before she could set the basin down again, he was headed out the back door. “Come back here this minute,” she ordered, using her best schoolteacher tone.

  “Told you what I was going to do.”

  “Have you lost your mind? I told you I was expecting my supplies today.”

  “You said today or tomorrow. I’m not waiting another week to get a decent bath.”

  She slammed a basin down on the table, sloshing water that dripped off onto the floor. “If Alaska takes a notion to come up here with my basket this morning, he’s not going to care if you’re dirty as a pig, he’ll—”

  He grinned at her, and then he was gone. Eleanor sighed and shook her head. Snatching one of the rags from the washtub to mop up the water she’d spilled on the floor, she caught the scent of his body—ripe, but not at all unpleasant. Earthy, masculine…

  “Well, my mercy, woman,” she muttered, “why not make a complete fool of yourself while you’re at it?”

  She decided to wait five minutes, giving him long enough to pour a few dipperfuls of water over his body, dry off and get dressed again. He’d been wearing his Levi’s and he’d taken his shirt out with him. She only hoped it didn’t set him back, two trips in the space of an hour, up and down those steps.

  She waited another five for good measure, then, with an anxious look toward the front path, she stepped out onto the back stoop, ready to call him back inside.

  And there he stood, bold as brass, strip-stark naked and dripping wet. While she watched, he poured a dipperful of cold water over his head, tilted his face back, and bared his teeth. He did it twice more before she caught herself staring and stepped inside again.

  Breathing as heavily as if she’d been running uphill, she leaned against the door, unable to erase the striking image. If Michelangelo’s David had come alive, he couldn’t have looked more perfect. Or more beautiful, right down to the gleaming wet hair that dripped over his forehead and the pattern of dark hair that formed a T on his chest before arrowing down his middle to…

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, woman, haven’t you learned anything?”

  Snatching up her egg basket, she hurried out the front door and around to the henhouse, which, fortunately, was on the other side of the cabin from the rain barrel. If she heard or saw anyone headed up the path, she would start singing. Something. Anything, as long as he didn’t barge out into the open like a sitting duck.

  A naked sitting duck.

  There were no more eggs.

  “Well, of course there aren’t, you’ve already collected them once today,” she said.

  What she needed was red meat. Jed needed to build up his strength quickly if they were going to get away. If he was strong enough to defy her now, he should be strong enough to walk down the hill and through the valley. But first she had to arrange for an accomplice.

  She would pay a visit to Varnelle tomorrow, Eleanor decided. They would have to go for a walk, though, because she wasn’t about to tip her hand where there was danger of being overheard. Once she explained what she had in mind and why it would be to Varnelle’s benefit, she might even offer an additional bribe. Her only jewelry was a watch that no longer worked and a wedding band she no longer wore because it turned her finger green, but there was her wedding dress. It would be too tight and too long, but it could be altered. Of course, rose wasn’t the best color for a redhead, but Varnelle might like to have it anyway. Goodness knows, they weren’t going to be able to take much with them.

  All right then, she thought decisively. Today to make plans, tomorrow to make arrangements, the next day to pack and rest up and by that time, Jed should be ready.

  Jed watched her hurry inside, wondering if she would mention what she’d seen. He knew she’d seen him. He’d heard her come outside, but by that time he’d managed to get shed of his jeans and pour half a dozen dipperfuls of water over his sore and itching carcass. He hadn’t been about to risk damaging his ribs by bending to scoop his Levi’s up off the ground, much less hopping around like a one-legged chicken to put them on again.

  Now he toweled off, enjoying the caress of fresh air on his naked skin. Hated like hell to get dressed again, but there was no way he could face her the way he was, even knowing she’d already seen all there was to see.

  Not quite everything, he corrected, amused and impatient with his body’s reaction to his prurient imagination.

  Prurient. Now there was an interesting word. He’d found it when he was looking up prudent—which someone had told him he wasn’t. Dictionaries were almost as interesting as encyclopedias. He had already snuck a few looks at hers. It was a lot smaller than the one in the library, but just as interesting.

  Dressed, he made his way up the steep steps, well satisfied with the progress he’d made. He’d been afraid being trussed up like a sausage might have weakened him, but it hadn’t. At least if he sneezed or drew a deep breath, he wouldn’t jab himself in the ribs with one of her blasted sticks.

  She was standing at the stove when he went inside. He knew very well she’d heard him—the top step creaked—but she didn’t look around.

  “Is that bacon I smell?” He could’ve eased on past to the bedroom, where his clothes were.

  “No, it’s not,” she snapped, glaring at the kettle that was just now beginning to steam. “I haven’t had bacon in ages. If I’m lucky, they bring me some ham or sidemeat now and then.”

  “Just as well, I reckon. I can really make a pig of myself when it comes to bacon.” He said it with a straight face and waited.

  It took a minute. He watched her profile, saw her begin to crumble. Then a giggle escaped her and he felt as if he’d won a bull-riding event at the county fair.

  “Sit down, it’ll be ready in a minute.” She tried to sound stern, but she wasn’t fooling him one bit, nosiree. Not anymore.

  “Yes, ma’am, just let me get rid of this towel. I forgot to leave it out back.” On his way inside he’d seen the washtub filled with the strips she’d used to bind his ribs. He felt guilty as the devil, adding more to her workload, but he didn’t know what else to do. “Make a deal with you,” he said. “You fill the tub, I’ll scrub, wring and hang everything.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I thought I was being reasonable.”

  “I don’t mind doing laundry, I have little enough to do, as it is.”

  “A whole lot more since I’ve been here,” he reminded her. “I’d like to help.”

  Her nose went up in the air, but she didn’t take him up on the offer. Work aside, when Eleanor Miller missed a chance to talk, something was wrong. Offhand, Jed couldn’t think of anything he’d done to offend her…if you didn’t count getting caught buck naked with his pecker at half-mast just from seeing her standing there gawking at him.

  She must have noticed, he mused, wondering what she’d thought of him. Wondering what the hell he was doing even thinking about such a thing. She was a schoolteacher, for God’s sake. She was older than he was—not that that bothered him. He was years older in experience, and when it came to the crunch, experience counted a damn sight more than boo
k learning.

  To cover the awkward silence, he started talking. “My mama—her name was Bess, but she’s dead now. She used to keep her washtub—thing was cast-iron, weighed a ton—she used to keep it out in the backyard, turned down when she wasn’t using it. On wash days she used to set it on three flat rocks and build a fire under it. Once the water started to boil and the suds started to make, she’d drop in the dirty clothes, poke at it ’em with a stick to loosen the dirt, then twist everything on the same stick to wring it out.”

  She went on frying whatever she was frying. Griddle cakes, from the smell of it. Smelled great.

  “’Course, you being a lady and a schoolteacher and an heiress and everything, you use a galvanized washtub and a washboard. I don’t know about wringing, though. Can you twist things around that washboard of yours? What d’you do, plant a foot on it to hold it in place?”

  He waited for her reaction. It wasn’t long in coming. She held back as long as she could, then she burst out laughing. “You’re a scamp, Jed Blackstone. You and that horse of yours must be quite a pair.”

  “Hey, don’t go maligning my horse. McGee’s got character.” He hoped she was impressed with his vocabulary, he’d been working on it for years now. It was getting pretty impressive, if he did say so himself. “Eleanor, in case I forgot to thank you…thank you.” Women, he knew for a fact, didn’t always get the thanks they deserved. Some of them, like his mother, died without ever hearing the words.

  She shook her head dismissively, but he thought the flush in her cheeks deepened. It occurred to him that if a sheep had long, golden wool, it would look like Eleanor’s hair. She said, “I’m sorry I don’t have any bacon. I’ll put a note in the basket, and maybe if we get some before we leave I can fry it up to take with us.”

  “I didn’t mean that, I just meant thank you, that’s all. For everything.”

  He broke off. By now he was standing so close he could see the faint freckles on the back of her neck. They matched the ones across her nose and cheeks. If anything, they were even more tempting.

  Spatula in hand, she turned just as he moved closer, mesmerized by those small, pale speckles. Startled, she stepped back, bumped against the hot stove and yelped. He caught her before she could fall, but not before she reached out to catch herself and burned her left hand.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, shaken. Holding her tightly with one arm, he jerked her away from the heat of the stove. “Jesus, Eleanor, I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

  She sucked her breath through her teeth in a way that told him how much she was hurting. “Let me see,” he said, trying to get a look at her hand without releasing her.

  “It’s nothing.” But she said it between clenched teeth.

  “It’s something. Burns hurt like the very devil. I know about burns.” Oh, yeah, he knew about burns, all right. Had the scars to prove it, too. “Water,” he said. “Hold it under water, they say that puts out the fire.”

  Nobody had offered to plop his tail in a bucket of water. Instead, they’d tossed him across his horse, slapped the critter on the rear end and laughed as he’d tried to hang on.

  “Grease,” she said, glancing at the can of lard on the shelf over the big range.

  “Butter,” he said, thinking of how soothing her buttery fingers had felt on his lips.

  But neither of them moved because he was still holding on to her, as much for his sake now as for his. Behave yourself down there, dammit!

  This was what came of not wearing underwear. She’d whacked his union suit up so bad it was all but useless.

  Shaking her injured hand in the air as if she could fling the pain from her fingertips, she said, “It’ll be better in just a minute, it doesn’t really hurt very much.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.” Wasn’t she even aware of what was happening down there?

  He knew the instant she figured it out. She looked startled, glanced down, then closed her eyes. Her flush deepened.

  “Eleanor, no disrespect, but would you mind ignoring, uh—that? Please?” He thought longingly of the barrel of cold water outside under the eaves. A dipperful now, and he’d start steaming.

  “Lard’s good,” he said hurriedly, hiding his embarrassment, “Lard works just fine.”

  She slipped from his arms and turned away. “There, I’ve gone and let the griddle get too hot.”

  That wasn’t all that was hot. Think cold water. Think standing under an icy waterfall.

  He was largely recovered from his brief exposure to the Miller clan. As for his exposure to Eleanor, that might take a little longer. Say a hundred or so years.

  Chapter Ten

  Once safely inside the bedroom, Jed leaned against the door and closed his eyes. Ready or not, he had to get away. He was beginning to think about things he had no business, and definitely no time, to think about. George was waiting for the money. For all Jed knew, the farm could already be gone, stolen out from under the family that had lived there for three generations, like too many others in the valley had been stolen. Stanfield knew exactly where to apply pressure. If there were no weaknesses, he and his band of hired hooligans would create one.

  “Not this time,” Jed whispered, drawing in a deep, resolute breath. Unless the old pirate had bought out the entire county seat and every judge east of the Smoky Mountains, this time he had met his match.

  He didn’t sit down because getting up again was still a slow and uncomfortable process. Pretending it wasn’t only made it worse. That was something he was going to have to work on. He flexed his ankle a time or two to gauge the degree of discomfort. It was better, a lot better, but probably not up to a hellbent footrace down the mountain.

  His ribs were another matter. He would just have to take his chances there. He didn’t know enough about bones to know how long it took them to mend, but he wasn’t fool enough to test them, not unless he had to. It was hardly the first time he’d taken a beating, although it had always taken more than one man to do it. What he lacked in brawn he made up in speed and experience.

  Over the years he’d been lucky—in fights, with women and with cards, winning more often than he lost. But luck could change in an instant. He was going to need both luck and speed this time. He might hold a winning hand, but first he had to get back in the game. After all the times George had bailed him out of trouble when they were kids, it was his turn now to return the favor.

  Loran Dulah had been a cold man, a narrow-minded man who hadn’t been able to see beyond his own prejudices. A Cherokee housekeeper had been good enough to raise his firstborn son when his wife had taken to her bed with a wasting fever. She’d been good enough to take to his own bed after his wife had died, but not good enough to marry, damn his stone-cold heart.

  There was a certain degree of satisfaction—all right, a whole lot of satisfaction—in being able to keep old Loran’s farm in the family. The Dulah family, if not the Blackstone portion.

  “You’re a small-minded bastard, you know that?” he muttered, sucking in his belly to shove in his shirttail. Not as much belly as he’d ridden in with, but a few good meals should take care of that.

  “Your breakfast is ready,” Eleanor called from the other side of the door. “Such as it is.”

  “Coming.”

  “Such as it is” turned out to be griddlecakes laced with blackstrap, the molasses strong enough to bite his tongue. He devoured the stack without looking up, still embarrassed by what had happened earlier. She’d seen all of him he’d cared to reveal, without having to witness his embarrassment.

  “Varnelle,” Eleanor said, reaching across to take his plate once he’d scraped it clean.

  “What about your hand?” She’d wrapped it in the same kind of sheeting she’d used on his ribs. Done a sloppy job of it, too, but then, bandaging one hand with the other was never easy. He knew, having done it a few times, himself. “Does it still hurt?”

  “It throbs some, but it’s not a bad burn—not even blistered, just pink and shiny.”
With a shake of the head she dismissed her injury, saying, “I’ve decided Varnelle is the one to help us. I’m pretty sure she will, because of Hector.”

  Following the way her mind worked wasn’t always easy. From chickens to Varnelle and Hector, Hector being the cold-eyed fellow who had sat on her porch and offered to bring her candy. As for the lady, he’d heard her name mentioned, but he had yet to see her. “Go on,” he said, knowing she needed little encouragement.

  It struck him all over again how lonesome she must have been, a city woman, used to being around people, living here all alone for so long. Those throwbacks could at least have taken her down to live in the community where she’d have company.

  On the other hand, judging from what he’d seen, she might be better off here. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “Yes, well…I’d pretty sure Varnelle loves Hector, only she’s afraid he might decide to marry me for my shares. That is, he might ask me. Not that I’d have him, of course, but if Varnelle loves him, she won’t believe that. She probably thinks any woman would jump at the chance to marry him.”

  That bug-brained, barefoot galoot and Eleanor? Not in a million years. They were barely the same species. Jed had enough book learning, even if self-imposed, to know that much. “So you figure that to take you out of the race, this woman might be willing to help you get away? Why haven’t you asked her before now?”

  “I never thought of using the chickens as a distraction.”

  He turned it over in his mind a few times and nodded. It was as simple as that. She could hardly have waited for a presidential visit, or even a county fair. Dexter’s Cut, tucked away as it was in a narrow wrinkle in the foothills, was so small that he doubted if anyone more than ten miles away even knew it existed.

  “I’m ready to travel any time you are,” he told her, knowing it fell a few yards short of the truth. All he had to do was find McGee. The old devil was fast as greased lightning in the short run, slow and steady on the long haul. He’d be carrying double this time, though. Jed didn’t know how he was going to react to that.