Shotgun Grooms

by Susan Mallery

  Jackson scowled and put aside thoughts of frying that bird. For the moment. “Could you get him down off my rifle?” he asked tightly.

  “Surely,” she said, smiling, and tapped the tips of her fingers against a chair back. “Come down, Captain.”

  The parrot craned its neck, ruffled its feathers and then in a blur of colored motion swooped from its perch to take up a stand on the chair beside Jackson. It walked back and forth on the top rail, its clawed feet scraping against the wood and Jackson’s last nerve at the same time.

  This cabin wasn’t nearly big enough for the three of them, he thought, and briefly entertained the notion of being the first to leave. But just as quickly as the idea came, it disappeared. He wasn’t a man to cut and run at the first sign of trouble. Besides, he reminded himself, this was his house. He wouldn’t be run off by a parrot, of all things.

  Nope. He’d stay right here until Molly Malone MacIntyre realized just how miserable a thing it was to be married to the likes of him. Hell, he thought, brightening a bit, she’d probably get sick and tired of him in no time. And with any luck, she’d divorce him and then things could get back to normal.

  “So,” she said, and his gaze darted to her. “Are you hungry or not?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, figuring that if she was willing to cook, it beat the hell out of him having to do it himself. Pulling out a chair, he sat down and refilled his coffee cup. Taking a long drink, he watched her as she went to work. She moved easily, competently, and he knew she’d done this many times before. A woman at home in the kitchen. Well, he told himself, there at least was one bright spot, if the food tasted as good as she looked cooking it. Within minutes, she had that skillet heating, fresh bacon frying and eggs sizzling alongside.

  “Uncle Michael was a hearty appetite on two short legs,” she said, and Jackson realized the hardest part of all this was that he was going to miss the silence around here. He didn’t think Molly could be quiet for longer than a few seconds at a stretch.

  “Most men like to eat,” he said.

  “Aye, that’s the truth of it,” she said, and flipped the bacon over to crisp up on the other side. “And Michael would always be bringin’ his friends round to the house. So you could say the skillet in our house never cooled off.”

  “You cooked for all of them?”

  She turned, refilled his coffee and gave him a quick flash of that smile. “I did. And they ate anything I put in front of them, but for fish. They never were much for eating the stuff they spent all of their lives catching.”

  In spite of himself, he was getting caught up in her story. “Your uncle was a fisherman?”

  “That he was, and a fine one, too.” She flipped the eggs over in the skillet, nodding when they hissed and popped in the bacon grease. “But he’d a love for the whiskey, as well, and that often kept him off the ships and in the taverns.”

  She shot him a narrowed look.

  “Your brother owns a tavern,” she said warily. “Are you a drinkin’ man, Jackson?”

  “Not so much,” he said, understanding why she asked. This couldn’t be any easier on her. She’d married a stranger and was now hoping she hadn’t made the mistake Jackson thought she had.

  “Ah,” she said smiling, “that’s good.”

  Then she turned back to her cooking and Jackson’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. The scent of the food seemed to surround him and he felt as though he hadn’t eaten in years. He helped himself to a thick slice of her fresh bread and nearly groaned aloud when he took a bite. It was almost enough to make a man reconsider this whole wife situation. He’d been eating his own cooking for so long he’d forgotten how good food could taste when prepared by a knowledgeable hand.

  “You know,” she said, spearing the bacon slices and dropping them onto a plate, “I’ve been thinking…”

  “The most dangerous words a woman can say,” he muttered into his coffee cup.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothin’,” he assured her, not willing to start that argument up again until he’d had a sample of her cooking.

  “Hmm…” She gave him a curious look as she flipped three eggs onto the plate beside the bacon, then set it down in front of him.

  He tucked right in, surprising himself with the hunger scratching at his belly. The first bite nearly made him weep. Bacon crisp, eggs done to a perfect turn. Almost more than a man had a right to hope for. In fact, the meal would have been perfect if not for the screeching parrot and the woman now sitting opposite him.

  Damn distracting, trying to enjoy your food while a redhead with fire in her eyes was watching every bite you took.

  “Good?” she asked unnecessarily.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, lingering on the taste of that bacon. “Aren’t you having any?”

  “Oh no,” she said, taking a sip of coffee and shaking her head. “I ate while you were asleep.”

  She’d done plenty while he was asleep, Jackson noted for the first time as his gaze swept the interior of the cabin. He’d been so busy dealing with Molly, he hadn’t noticed anything else. Until now.

  The floor was swept, his dirty clothes were stacked in a corner, the hearth had been cleaned out and a new fire laid and the stack of dirty dishes had been washed and put away. Gave him an itch between his shoulder blades, thinking of her wandering around his house, rooting through his things while he was flat on his back unable to protest. Besides, he liked his place just like it was.

  Wasn’t it enough he had a wife all of a sudden to put up with?

  His gaze slid back to her and he thought she looked plenty satisfied with herself.

  “Made yourself right at home, I see.”

  One red eyebrow shot straight up in a gesture he was coming to be familiar with already.

  “If you mean I straightened up a bit, aye, I did.”

  He set his fork down on the edge of his plate and leaned back in his chair. Studying her, he folded his arms across his chest. Now that his belly was full and his head a bit clearer, he decided now was as good a time as any to set her straight as to how things were going to be around here.

  “Well, don’t,” he said flatly.

  “Don’t what? Clean my home?”

  “My home.”

  “Our home.”

  Jackson sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. “I guess we’re about to continue that argument, huh?”

  “So it seems,” she told him. “And if you’re thinkin’ to frighten me with that fish-eyed stare of yours, you can think again.”

  He squirmed a bit in his chair at the accusation, despite the fact that there might have been a thread of truth in what she’d said. “I don’t frighten women.”

  “Not this one any road.” She crossed her arms over her chest, mimicking his posture.

  “Any road?” Her Irish was definitely up again.

  “Fine then. Any way.” She sniffed. “And don’t change the subject.”

  “And that is?” he asked, losing his patience again as she seemed to talk in circles.

  Molly leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table. She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes yet somehow managed to steal his breath anyway. Then she looked him dead in the eye and said, “You may not have wanted a wife, Jackson MacIntyre, but you by heaven have got one now. And I’m not goin’ anywhere, so you may as well get used to it.”

  He slapped the palms of his hands onto the tabletop just opposite hers and leaned forward to meet her glare head-on. “There’re a few things you’ll have to get used to also,” he said, “such as, I do as I please, when I please, and that’s not going to change.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And I don’t take orders well.”

  “When I want to go huntin’, I go huntin’.”

  “I cook one meal at a time. If you’re not here to eat it when it’s hot, you’ll eat it cold.”

  Jackson stood up, still leaning toward her. “I like peace and quiet.”

  Molly
stood up, too, put her hands at her hips and leaned in at him. “I like to talk. And to sing sometimes.”

  “I don’t want a harpy for a wife.”

  “And I don’t much care to be married to a growlin’ bear of a husband.”

  “I won’t love you,” he said, and surprised himself with the words. He’d been thinking them, but he hadn’t expected to say them out loud.

  It was the simple truth, though. He wouldn’t love anyone again. Would never let anyone that close to him again. He’d learned that lesson years ago and learned it well enough to last him the rest of his life. That was part of the reason he’d separated himself from the rest of the world.

  It wasn’t just the scar on his face that had him hiding from people. It was the scar on his soul and that one still felt fresh.

  Now, looking into Molly’s sea-green eyes, and seeing the flash of hurt there, he almost wished things were different. Wished he was different. But like Uncle Simon used to say, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

  Molly straightened up and nodded at him. “Fair enough, then,” she said. “I won’t expect your love, though I think perhaps one day you’ll regret sayin’ that.”

  “No, I—”

  She held up one hand to quiet him, then went on. “Doesn’t matter for now,” she said quietly. “Like I said, I won’t expect your love, but I do expect your respect. After all, I am your wife.”

  That last sentence cost her some pride, Jackson thought, and said what he could to ease her on that score. “You’re my wife,” he agreed, “and I’ll treat you as such.”

  “Then we’ve a truce?” she asked, sticking out her right hand toward him.

  He looked at her small hand for a long minute and considered just what taking it would mean. A truce. And how long could that last, he wondered, when the two people involved both had heads as hard as stone? Still, he’d never been one to walk away from a fight.

  Slapping his hand into hers, his fingers curled around her hand and squeezed gently. If he felt a quick burst of warmth shoot up his arm and dart into the dark block of ice that was his heart, Jackson ignored it.

  “A truce,” he said, and was glad she smiled at him again.

  Chapter Five

  The woman never sat still.

  Jackson glanced up from the table where his rifle lay scattered in pieces for cleaning. Three days he’d been…married, and just watching his new wife damn near wore him out. Molly had cleaned his cabin until he hardly recognized the place.

  The wood floor gleamed damply from her constant scrubbing. The inside of the windows shone, reflecting the firelight, and the only thing that had kept her from finishing the job by washing the outside of the glass panes was the fact that the rain hadn’t stopped long enough for her to manage. She’d sanded the tabletop and now the damn thing was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. She’d even somehow scraped years’ worth of smoke and dirt off the walls. Now the rough-hewn logs were almost white from her attentions.

  This wasn’t a cabin anymore, he told himself in silent disgust. It was fast becoming a cottage. And there didn’t seem to be any way of stopping her. Pulling the reins in on Molly would be like trying to lasso a tornado as it sped across the plains.

  Though, he told himself as he watched her open that trunk of hers again, it might be worth the effort.

  For three days, when he hadn’t been off at the mine looking for a little peace and quiet, he’d watched her delve into that steamer trunk and come up with more junk than he would have believed possible. Dishes and rugs and oil lamps and books—all right, he didn’t mind the addition of a few new books to the pitifully small library he kept on one low shelf near the hearth. In fact, he was looking forward to reading her stories about the sea and the one by that fella Dickens.

  But a few books didn’t come near to making up for what she was doing to his life.

  “Won’t these look nice?”

  Jackson came out of his thoughts like a hibernating bear waking up in springtime. He shook his head and lifted his gaze to hers. She held up a pair of white lace curtains and smiled at him.

  “Look nice where?” he asked, his voice a low growl of disapproval.

  “At the windows,” she said, and bent over the edge of the trunk again. “Where else?” she asked, her voice muffled by the contents of what Jackson had come to think of as almost a magical trunk.

  There seemed to be no bottom to the damn thing. No matter how much stuff she pulled out of it, there was always more. A part of him wouldn’t have been surprised to see her drag a horse and buggy from the depths of the trunk he’d come to hate.

  “I’ve enough for all the windows in here somewhere,” she said, and his gaze locked on her behind, jutting up from the trunk.

  She shifted and wriggled as she rummaged through the trunk’s contents and Jackson swallowed hard. Her skirt hitched up until the backs of her calves were exposed and her behind swayed with her every movement.

  Memory stirred inside him and he fought hard to keep it at bay. If he hadn’t consummated the marriage, he might right now be a free man. But he had, and that one night with her had sealed his fate.

  The fact that he hadn’t slept with her since didn’t change a damn thing. Hell of a marriage this was going to be, he thought, disgusted. Him walking around frustrated as hell and her sailing through the years, blissfully happy and hanging curtains.

  Oh yeah. First chance he got, he was headed to town to take this up with Lucas. The man was going to pay for what he’d started here.

  “There,” she said, and came up out of the trunk holding her prize high. More curtains. Perfect.

  Turning her head, she swung that long fall of red hair back over her shoulders and flashed him a smile that shook him to his toes.

  “All they need is ironing and they’ll be ready to hang.”

  “Don’t have an iron,” he said quickly, hoping to postpone the hanging of lace at his windows.

  “I do,” she told him, dashing that pitifully small hope.

  “Naturally,” he muttered, and snatched up the rifle’s trigger housing and snapped it into place.

  “What?”

  He shook his head, then answered her question with one of his own. “Just how much junk do you have in that damn thing?”

  “Junk is it?”

  He noted the narrowing of her eyes, but he didn’t care. Hell, maybe a fight would take the edge off the hunger she aroused in him just by being here.

  Waving one hand at the still overflowing trunk, he said, “I’ve never seen so much…stuff. What good is it?”

  Pushing herself to her feet, Molly clutched the curtains in her fists and planted those fists on her hips in a position he’d already come to know as her battle stance. “It’s made your shack into a home,” she told him.

  “It is—or it was a cabin. Not a shack.” He looked around him, letting his gaze slide across a room that should have been familiar and wasn’t. “Now I’m not sure what it is.”

  “So you don’t like what I’ve done,” she said.

  “I liked it fine before.”

  “Oh aye, I’ll bet you did,” she countered, shaking one fist at him and sending the lace fabric waving in the air. “Living here like some great beast, tucked away in your dank hole.”

  “Dank?”

  “Dank I said and dank I meant,” she snapped. “There was so much grime on the windows, they might as well have not been there in the first place.”

  “I could see fine.”

  “For a blind man.”

  That did it. Jackson stood up and faced her down, not even knowing why he bothered. She’d already made it clear to him that his size didn’t intimidate her in the least. But as it was all he had in the war to hold on to his sanity, he clung to it like a drowning man grabbing at a plank of wood.

  “I was getting along pretty well on my own, you know.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is.”

  She sniffed at him, then turned
and stalked across the room to a small cupboard that held his supplies. Flinging open the door, she waved one hand at the contents. “Beans,” she said flatly. “Can after can of beans. This is how you were getting along before me. Eating your meals out of a tin, for pity’s sake.”

  “There are other things there besides beans,” he told her, though he silently admitted, not much more.

  “A cupful of flour and a shake of sugar don’t really mean much in the grand scheme of things, now do they?”

  He scowled at her. There was more than that and he knew it as well as she did. But she and that tart tongue of hers were determined to make a point.

  “Do I look like I’m starving to you?” he demanded.

  Her gaze moved up and down his body slowly and damned if he didn’t feel a quick, lightninglike bolt of pure desire in response. How the hell was a man supposed to keep his hands off his wife if just looking at her set him on fire?

  “No,” she admitted with a shake of her head, “you don’t at that. Though you haven’t seemed to mind my cooking.”

  True enough, the woman was an artist with a skillet. Over the past few days, she’d used his meager supplies and somehow come up with real meals. He hadn’t eaten so well in years. But that hardly made up for the rest of it. He was a man used to time to himself. He was a man who needed to be alone. Hell, there’d been more noise in this cabin in the past three days then there had been in the past ten years.

  “Trouble amidships!” Captain Blood screeched and added fuel to the fire.

  Jackson snarled at the damn bird. “Stay out of this, Stew Pot!”

  “You leave him alone, you great bully.”

  “Bully?” he repeated, astonished. “You’re the one who marched into my house like Grant storming through Richmond. Hell, woman, you should have been in the army!”

  “If I had been,” she told him hotly, “there’d have been no bloody war, I can tell you that.”

  Like air rushing out of a child’s balloon, anger rushed from him, leaving him empty inside. He stared at her for a long minute, before saying, “Then it’s a damn shame you weren’t in charge.”