The Texan's Inherited Family

by Noelle Marchand

  “You can put the rice in the slop pail for the pigs. Meanwhile, I’ll see how they rigged up the bed and undo it.”

  By the time she returned, he’d pulled back the quilt completely from the bed to reveal their saboteur’s handiwork. The fitted sheet seemed untouched, but someone had tucked the top sheet into the head of the bed so that it looked like the fitted sheet. They’d then doubled it over so that it also appeared to be a normal top sheet. Lastly, they’d tucked in the sides so the sheet became sort of an impenetrable envelope.

  Quinn quickly remade the bed correctly, shaking his head the entire time. “I made this bed myself this morning with new sheets and all. It kind of gives me an eerie feeling to know someone was prowling around the place, causing mischief when I was gone. I’ve a mind to go into town on Monday and get a better lock for the doors around this place. There. All fixed. I’ll take the trash you have with me when I leave.”

  “Thank you for coming to my rescue.” She swept the last of the rice into the dustpan and emptied it into the slop pail.

  “I’m just glad you aren’t too badly hurt.”

  She watched him plump the pillows for her as she sat on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to do that.”

  He shrugged. “I’m done now. Good night.”

  “Good night.” She moved to the head of the bed as he grabbed the slop bucket, broom and dustpan. She’d just blown out the lamp when the sound of him softly calling her name made her turn to find the silhouette of his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped frame lingering at the door. “Yes, Quinn?”

  “You looked beautiful at the wedding today. I hope I told you that.”

  He hadn’t and she hadn’t realized how dearly she’d missed the compliment until now. The sincerity in his voice caused a small smile to curve at her lips. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll let you get some sleep.” He stepped away from the door.

  She moved to the far end of the bed. Clutching the footboard, she called his name. He reappeared in an instant. She bit her lip. Somehow the darkness helped her find her courage. It didn’t stop the blush from rising in her cheeks. “Quinn, I think it’s only fair of you to explain what you meant when you said you’d be sleeping in the boys’ room ‘from now on.’ Does ‘from now on’ mean forever?”

  His shoulders tensed as she spoke, and his gaze dropped to the path of light that led toward her. “I don’t know, Helen. Maybe. Probably.”

  She nodded then waited for him to close the door behind him before sliding under the covers. She even went so far as to pull them over her head. It wasn’t enough to shelter her from the doubts that stalked her thoughts.

  She’d married Quinn thinking that it would be easy to fall in love with him one day. However, she hadn’t considered the possibility that he might not be inclined to return the favor. Judging by tonight, that might very well be the case.

  It would be wise to guard her heart and not place too much faith in love making the difference. If he did fall in love with her and they decided to have a normal marriage, how long would it be before he figured out there would be no baby coming? Would he realize she’d known she was damaged all along? That she’d hid it from him?

  It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter. Quinn had married her to take care of the four children he already had. Surely her worth as his wife was secure in that. She didn’t need to think that far ahead, anyway. Right now, their marriage was only a matter of convenience to him—no matter how much more it might mean to her.

  Chapter Five

  The dusky-blue light of dawn crept down the hallway where Quinn paused outside what used to be his bedroom. He tapped on the door and listened for any sounds of his wife stirring. Hearing none, he tapped a little harder. Still nothing. With a frown, Quinn eased the door open and immediately wished he hadn’t. Something just didn’t seem decent about being in a lady’s bedroom while she was sleeping. Yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as he rounded the corner of the bed and knelt beside it.

  She was cuddled under the covers with her hand resting beside her cheek on a hunter-green linen pillowcase. The color complemented the roses in her cheeks and lips. Her rich brown waves tumbled over her shoulder. Quinn felt his brow furrow in confusion. How on earth had he convinced this beautiful creature to marry him?

  He’d be a lot more comfortable with this situation if she were a little more plain, slightly dumb or just flat-out boring. She wasn’t, though. He’d never been more aware of that than when he’d found himself alone with her for an entire evening. He wasn’t completely dense. He knew that his banjo playing had bordered on excessive. He’d felt the annoyance rolling off his bride in waves. He just hadn’t known what to do about it. He was afraid to talk for fear that she’d realized she’d been bamboozled into marrying a man so much dumber than her. He was afraid to look at her because that made him forget he didn’t deserve her. Touching her was completely out of the question.

  He’d lain awake for hours with his thoughts spinning in circles inside his head. They mostly revolved around the fact that he barely knew the woman he’d just given his last name. He knew plenty about her, but he didn’t know her personally. He could count on one hand the number of times they’d spoken to each other and most of those conversations had occurred within the past week. That should make for an interesting married life, especially since he had little idea about what one was supposed to be like. His mother had died when he was Trent’s age and his father hadn’t remarried, which meant Quinn had never seen a marriage modeled in his own home. Townsfolk in Peppin seemed pretty fascinated by making matches and marrying people off, yet no one ever said anything about how to build a good marriage after the match was made.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been kneeling beside the bed thinking and watching Helen sleep before her sooty lashes began to flutter. He suddenly realized how close he was to her and tried to move away, but he was too late. Her eyes opened, locked on his and widened. Gasping, she bolted upright in bed and scrambled away from him. “Were you watching me sleep?”

  Quinn figured his best tactic was evasion. “I was just about to awaken you. We’ve got chores to do.”

  “Chores?”

  He nodded. “I need you to milk the cow, feed the chickens and gather the eggs. We’ll have to hurry to get everything done, dress, pick up the children and still be on time for church.”

  She blinked. “Milk the chickens?”

  She must be one of those folks who was slow to wake up. He didn’t even try to hide his grin, though he quickly rubbed it away. “I’d like to see you try that.”

  “Try what?” She corralled her hair so that it pooled over one shoulder.

  “Milking the chickens.”

  The teasing in his voice must have gotten through her sleep-fogged state, for a dangerous glint of humor warmed her brown eyes. “I bet you would. Repeat the list for me again.”

  He braced his elbows on the edge of the bed and ticked off each chore on his fingers. “Milk the cow. Feed the chickens. Gather the eggs. The milk pail and egg basket will be on the worktable in the barn with the bin of chicken feed beside it. All of that will be on your left side as soon as you walk in. You can’t miss it.”

  She nodded. “Right.”

  “No, left.” He pointed to his left, which he realized too late would be her right.

  She tugged his hand down with a laugh. “No. I meant, ‘right,’ as in ‘I understand.’”

  “Oh, right.” He glanced at her hand still covering his and wondered how the deal he made with God applied when she was the one reaching out. Yes, sir. He and God had some things they needed to hash out. Until then, he’d better not chance it. He disengaged his hand from hers as he stood. “Better get moving. The animals don’t like to wait.”

  * * *

  The man had no shame. It was obvious that he’d been wat
ching her sleep for some time, yet he didn’t even have the grace to look the slightest bit embarrassed at being caught. Then, as if she hadn’t been disoriented enough by awakening in an unfamiliar place, he’d knocked further off balance with his teasing before delivering the final blow to her sensibilities. Chores.

  She should have known that living on a farm would mean that she’d have farm chores. She’d just gotten so wrapped up in the idea of being a mother and having her impossible dream come true it hadn’t crossed her mind. That and the fact that chores had never really been something she’d ever had to consider before. Growing up, she’d been responsible for keeping her room tidy. However, the maids had taken care of any real cleaning. And there had been no animals to care for.

  Her move to Bradley’s Boardinghouse hadn’t necessitated any real change on her part since the Bradley family handled most of the mundane responsibilities for their boarders. Of course, she’d been in charge of keeping the schoolhouse in order. That had consisted of encouraging the children to clean up after themselves, giving the floor a good sweep and cleaning the chalkboard. There was nothing too strenuous or demanding about that.

  Still, how hard could it be to take care of a few basic farm chores? She was an intelligent woman, after all. Surely she’d catch on to her responsibilities quickly. She tied her hair back with a ribbon, put on a light coat and buttoned up her boots. There would be time to dress later. The important thing was to heed Quinn’s admonishment to hurry.

  The sound of Quinn splitting wood behind the house rang through the brisk autumn air as she stepped outside. She gave a little shiver and gathered her coat closer before setting off across the open field toward the barn. Her right hip reminded her of last night’s unfortunate tumble out of bed by protesting each step she took with that leg. It didn’t help that she continually had to jerk the heels of her kid-leather boots out of the thick grass. By the time she arrived at the door of the large red barn, the hem of her nightgown was wet with dew and clinging uncomfortably to her bare legs. Next time, the animals would have to wait for her to dress more warmly.

  The smell of the barn stopped her in her tracks. It was a mixture of sweet hay, musk from the animals and the sharp, acrid scent of dung. She rubbed her cold nose. It wasn’t so bad. Surely she’d get used to it in a few moments. Since she was already in the barn, it made sense to milk the cow first, so she grabbed the milking pan. Two horses neighed as she passed their stalls. She couldn’t tell whether it was a welcome or a warning. Finally, she found the right animal.

  Whoa. She’d seen cows from a distance before, but she’d never gotten this close to one. She hadn’t realized they were quite so...large. The animal swung its head toward her and stared. Not threatening exactly—just slightly intimidating. Helen bent her knees to get a look at the teats attached to the bulgy sack on its stomach. In theory, that’s where the milk came from. She knew that. She just wasn’t entirely sure what was required to procure the milk from that into the bucket. Oh, well. What had she told her students? Learning begins with the decision to try.

  She unhooked the gate, closed it behind her and did exactly that. She tried...and tried...and tried to milk that blasted cow. It wasn’t as easy in reality as it was in theory. That was for sure. Even when the cow stood still long enough for Helen to set up the stool and reach under its belly to get a hold of its bulgy contraption, nothing came out. Out of breath from the chase as much as the struggle, Helen decided that the cow just didn’t want to share her milk today, so she traded in the milking pail for the chicken feed and egg basket.

  The chicken coop was on the right side of the barn, closer to the house. She walked into the caged-in yard with confidence. The chickens would be far more manageable than the cow, if only because they were smaller. Plus, there was no fancy equipment on a chicken. It would all be very straightforward. Feed them. Gather the eggs from their nest. No problem.

  At her approach, six hens and a rooster rushed out of their little house like children after a long day of school. Helen benevolently spread the feed across the yard as the clucking hens gobbled it up. The rooster seemed far more inclined to follow her around crowing and pecking at the feed that fell near her feet. Sometimes he missed the grain completely and accidentally pecked her boots. He was a pretty thing with his iridescent red-orange body and black-feathered bottom. He seemed to know it, too, from the way he strutted and crowed. The more she watched him, the more he began to remind her of her ex-fiancé in Austin.

  She was just throwing the last of the feed when she realized that the rooster either had consistently bad aim or his target had, in fact, been her foot the whole time. She took a large step away from him. The next thing she knew, the rooster was hopping, flapping its wings and chasing her around the closed-in yard. The chickens squawked their disapproval. That caught the rooster’s attention and he veered toward the loudest complainer with dubious intentions.

  Helen ducked for cover inside the chicken coop, closing the door firmly behind her. With a sigh of relief, she surveyed her surroundings only to find that she was not alone. Two chickens had not left their roosts. Soon all the eggs lay safely in the basket except for the ones the hens were hiding. She approached the white one first, crooning, “Sweet little chick. Aunt Helen needs you to move aside. That’s a good girl.”

  The white chicken clucked her sad tale and backed farther into her nest to let Helen take the precious egg. Helen couldn’t help beaming. “Thank you. Now, don’t let that mean old rooster scare you. You go on out and eat when I open the door. If I open the door. Maybe you could cause a diversion for me so I can get out of here.”

  She turned to the red chicken. “Time’s up, honey. You need to move out the way.”

  Helen edged closer, but the hen didn’t move or stop watching her with beady eyes. Helen extended her hand toward the nest. Perhaps she could just slide her hand under the seemingly frozen bird and... The bird launched out of the nest right toward Helen’s face in a flurry of feathers, squawking and screeching. Helen let out a scream that sounded a little too similar to what was coming out of the hen as something scratched her cheek. She tried to ward it off with the feeding pan but only ended up hitting herself in the face. All of a sudden she realized the hen was gone. She’d been fighting the egg basket swinging from her arm.

  Her panic faded, leaving her gasping for breath. She searched for her assailant, only to find the red hen clucking at the door as though it would open by her command. Helen gritted her teeth. She plucked the egg from the nest and placed it beside its rattled counterparts, then let the hens out the door. Helen peered out in search of the rooster and found it eating placidly near the door of the chicken coop—waiting for her, no doubt. She braced herself then ran for the exit.

  Her peripheral vision told her the rooster was hot on her trail. The red hen appeared in her path, blocking her way out. Helen shifted to the right. Her hip protested. She stumbled. Glancing back, she saw the rooster go airborne with his claws outstretched toward her. Suddenly, she left the ground, too. The world spun. She landed firmly on her feet—unharmed, with her eyes clenched shut. Opening them, she saw the most beautiful sight.

  Quinn was waving his arms at the rooster and chasing it into a corner away from her. His strident voice was music to her ears. “Back off! You know better than that!”

  She didn’t stick around to see the rest. She slipped out of the chickens’ yard to await her husband out of harm’s way. Her cheek was stinging from its encounter from the basket. Her lip was starting to fatten where she’d walloped herself with the feeding pan. She anxiously sifted through the eggs in the basket, looking for damage. She was so involved in her task that she didn’t hear Quinn approach until an instant before he lifted her chin with a gentle touch. His gaze explored her face as a frown marred his. “What happened to you?”

  She felt her eyes flash with indignation. “Your chickens attacked me. That’s what happened
.”

  “My chickens did this?”

  Her gaze dropped from his for an instant. “I might have helped them out a bit. Still, they were the cause.”

  “I’m not sure what that means, but you’d better wash your face. This scrape on your cheek is bleeding.” The concern in his tone, without even a hint of mockery, was just the balm she needed for her wounded pride.

  She found herself leaning closer to him, hoping he’d wrap her in his arms if only for a moment. “Thank you for saving me again.”

  “Glad to do it.” He chuckled. “I was on my way to the barn to feed the livestock and muck out the stalls when I heard you scream. Did you get a chance to milk the cow yet?”

  “I tried, but there’s no milk.”

  That frown was back. “No milk?”

  She shrugged. “I guess the cow didn’t want to give any today. Maybe there’ll be some tomorrow.”

  A strange look appeared on his face. Confusion? Suspicion? Disbelief? She couldn’t quite tell. He ran his fingers through his short hair. “I’ll deal with it. You go on inside and take care of yourself. I should be in by the time you have breakfast ready.”

  “Breakfast. Right. That sounds good.” She backed away, smiling and nodding the whole time. She could fix breakfast. No problem. After all, how hard could it be to scramble a few eggs?

  * * *

  Quinn had married into trouble. The knowledge had come upon him gradually at first. Now, with the day drawing to a close, he could no longer deny the truth. He’d suspected it when he’d found his wife running from the rooster, but he’d been willing to give her the benefit of the doubt because it was a fact that roosters could be territorial, especially with new people. As soon as she’d said that piece about the cow, he’d known he had a problem. The cow wasn’t dry. She couldn’t be. In fact, he had to milk her twice a day just to keep up with her production. However, it wasn’t until the disaster of a meal she’d called breakfast that realization had come hard and swift like a knee to the stomach.