The Unexpected Wife

by Mary Burton

  “Like most others.”

  Frustrated by his lack of interest, she blurted, “Squeezing blood from a turnip would be easier than getting information out of you, Mr. Barrington.”

  He glanced at her, his eyes sharp with annoyance. “Not much for chitchat, I suppose.”

  “So I am discovering.”

  “If you want to talk then go back to San Francisco, Miss Smyth.”

  “I don’t wish to rehash what we’ve already discussed, Mr. Barrington.” She sat a little straighter. “I’m not leaving Montana. I’m here to stay.”

  Here to stay.

  Guilt ate into Matthias. He’d made the only practical decision that he could, but he felt as if were letting Elise down by bringing another woman into the home that he’d built for her.

  This asinine plan of Mrs. Clements’s had created trouble he didn’t need.

  As they drove closer to his ranch, the idea of having Abby Smyth under his roof was becoming all too real. His place had once seemed a practical size but with each turn of the wagon wheel it seemed to shrink. There’d be no ignoring her when she moved into the cabin.

  The fact was he was drawn to Miss Smyth.

  He glanced sideways at her. There was never a woman more opposite from his Elise. Elise had been small-boned, while this Abigail was tall and broad-shouldered. Her eyes weren’t smoky or coy but direct and strong.

  Elise had always looked her finest when she was in her Sunday best, whereas the simpler clothes suited Miss Smyth. She’d moved stiffly in the yards of fabric yesterday as if the role of a lady had not suited her. But in the calico, she walked with confidence.

  Elise had been so young and fresh-faced when they’d moved out here. Her laugh had been quick and when she’d sang it was about the prettiest thing he’d ever heard. She couldn’t cook worth a lick and she burned his share of shirts, but in those days he hadn’t cared.

  When he’d gotten the itch to move west, Elise hadn’t wanted to move away from St. Louis. She liked her friends, her social functions and the convenience of a big city. But a homestead in Montana had been a dream of his for years and so he’d worked hard to sell her on the idea. In the end he’d convinced her to go with him.

  No one had convinced Miss Smyth to move here. She’d come on her own, which proved either she possessed strength and grit or that she was a fool.

  Still, it hadn’t been her strength he’d noticed yesterday when he’d wrapped his hands around her narrow waist and lifted her from the carriage. The full curve of her breasts, her scent, the way his body had hardened when she’d been close—those were the things he’d noticed.

  Last night when he’d been lying in the back of the wagon staring at the stars, he’d thought about Miss Smyth. He’d imagined desire in her eyes as he skimmed his hand under her skirt, up the inside of her soft leg. He’d imagined she’d been wet and waiting for him. He’d dreamed of unfastening the buttons between her breasts and pushing the fabric aside to kiss her nipples until they’d hardened. He’d dreamed of driving into her until she’d moaned with desire.

  Matthias jerked his attention back to the present. Good Lord, he’d all but forgotten Elise for those few moments. He shifted in his seat, annoyed that he was stiff as a poker.

  With Miss Smyth as his only source of help for the foreseeable future, the last thing he needed was to have lust singing in his veins.

  Hiring her was the right thing to do. It made good sense. He needed help on the ranch and the boys needed someone to look after them.

  But knowing all that didn’t erase the guilt that had burrowed into his bones.

  They arrived at the ranch minutes before sunset. Several hours earlier, Abby and the boys had moved from the front of the wagon to a small pallet in the back. Though it had been a relief to move away from the stone-faced Mr. Barrington, her limbs were now stiffer than ever.

  Wincing, she rose slowly so as not to wake the boys. Mr. Barrington had already hopped down from the wagon and was unlatching the back gate.

  She climbed over the front seat and down the side of the wagon. Her legs felt wobbly as she stamped her feet and tried to get the blood flowing back in them. She grabbed her belongings, still bundled in her grandmother’s tablecloth.

  As she scanned the moonlit yard, her gaze settled on her new home. She remembered Mrs. Clements’s description of the Barrington homestead. A fine home, large by Montana standards, with room for a growing family. But as she stared at the house made of roughly hewn logs, her first impression was that it was a shed built to hold tools. “Mr. Barrington, where’s the house?”

  “This is it,” he said, his voice gruff.

  Stunned, her gaze skimmed back to the small stoop, a tin washbasin hanging by the front door and the shingled roof. Five white chickens scratched in the dirt by a large woodpile and a large stump with an ax driven into its center. In the distance a dog barked. The air had grown cold enough to see her breath.

  “Go ahead and have a look inside,” Mr. Barrington said. “There’s a lantern by the front door.”

  Hugging her belongings wrapped in her tablecloth, Abby moved to the front porch where she found the lantern and matches. She lit the wick, hoping that with a little extra light the place would acquire charm.

  It didn’t.

  Faded blue curtains dangled in the two dirt-streaked windows. Flower boxes hung under each window, but each was filled with weeds. The railing beside the front three stairs was sturdy but the front steps creaked as she climbed up to the front door.

  She pushed open the front door and glanced briefly down at the threshold. In her dreams, her husband had whisked her up in his arms and carried her over it.

  Faced with the reality of her life, she pushed aside the sad, lonely feeling and stepped over it into her new home.

  Immediately, she was struck by the strong ashy scent from the cookstove and the stale scent of male. Holding the lantern high, she inspected the cabin.

  If the outside were troubling, the inside was truly frightening.

  The rectangular room was perhaps thirty feet wide. At one end there was a large bed with rumpled sheets. By their graying color, Abby would have bet they’d not been washed since last summer. At the other end were a cookstove, a small all-purpose table and four chairs.

  The stove had gone cold. On the cooktop sat cast-iron pots, one crusted with what looked like the remains of a stew and the other fried eggs. A slab of ham hung from the low-lying ceiling from a hook. To the right there was a washbasin filled with more dirty plates and cups and above it a narrow shelf with a crock filled with salt.

  Queasy at the thought of cleaning this mess, Abby set her bundle down on the table and turned toward the other end of the cabin. There was a ladder that led to a loft. She climbed the ladder and inspected the space. It was outfitted with a small pallet.

  Every bone in her body ached with weeks of nervous anticipation and travel. She thought longingly about her bed back at her aunt and uncle’s house. The small attic room seemed like a palace now, her small warm bed a haven.

  Climbing down, she tried to imagine herself living out the rest of her years in such a place with two growing boys and a man who didn’t want her.

  The sound of tiny claws scurrying across the bare wood floor echoed in the cabin. A black rodent disappeared through a hole in the floorboard.

  A rat! She screamed and jumped back. Immediately, she began to search around her for any other little beasties that might be lurking.

  “Ready to leave yet?” Mr. Barrington’s deep voice sounded directly behind her.

  Startled by the sound of his voice, she turned. The man moved as quiet as a cat. “There is a rat in your cabin.”

  He held the two sleeping boys in his arms. “A couple, more likely. I’ve not had time to set traps.”

  Abby stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  Moving past her, he strode across the room toward the bed. Gently, he lay both children down.

  Quinn stirred for a mo
ment. “Pa?”

  Mr. Barrington smoothed back the hair off the boy’s face, then tucked the blanket under his chin. “Go on to sleep now, boy, we’re home.”

  “Good,” Quinn said.

  Mr. Barrington started at each boy a beat longer and then rose. In the dimming light his face was all angles and shadows. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She couldn’t read his expression but there was no missing the challenge in his voice. “What question?”

  He took a step forward. “Are you ready to leave?”

  Smoothing her damp palms down her skirt she concentrated on keeping her voice steady. “Why should I? The place is lovely.”

  He let the seconds tick by, then shook his head. “You’re a bad liar. But I suppose that’s a good thing.”

  It was a backhanded compliment at best, still it pleased her.

  “We both best get to bed,” he said. “Tomorrow, like every other day out here, is going to be a long one.”

  The mention of bed swept away her fatigue and had her nerves dancing. “Where do we sleep?” Grateful for the fading light, she could feel the color burning her face.

  “I’ll bunk with the boys for now. You can have Frank’s loft,” he said quickly. “It’ll give you some privacy.”

  She glanced up toward the loft. She prayed she didn’t roll out of it in her sleep. “Okay.”

  “Do you have any other bags?”

  She retrieved her bundle. “No, this is all I have.”

  “It’s light for such a long trip.”

  She shrugged, unwilling to discuss her midnight flight from her uncle’s house. “I don’t need much.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You running from the law?”

  A grim smile twisted her lips. “No. But there’s no going back for me.”

  The news deepened his scowl. “Don’t expect any happy endings out here, Abby. What’s between us is strictly business.” He turned and left through the front door.

  Large tears welled in her eyes. Tipping her head back she refused to let them fall. Her lantern in hand, she climbed the small ladder to the loft. On her knees, she stared at her new room. The loft’s crude floor was covered with a pallet and several thick quilts. There was just enough room for one person to sleep.

  She thought about her nightgown, her brush and tooth powder still wrapped in her tablecloth. She longed to wash the grime of the day off and brush out her hair, but in the darkness the task was impossible.

  This day was over as far as she was concerned and she was glad of it.

  Her clothes and shoes still on, she crawled up on the pallet and, lying down, she pulled the blankets up to her chin. Using her bundle as a pillow she put her head down. She blew out her lantern.

  Despite her exhaustion, thoughts collided in her mind. Outside she heard an animal howl. Tales of wolves mauling pioneers dug their way out of her memory.

  “Look at it this way, Abby,” she whispered. “It can’t get worse.”

  The next morning, it got worse.

  Chapter Six

  When Abby woke hours before dawn, she was freezing. The roof overhead creaked and groaned and a cold chill whisked through the loft. She burrowed deeper under the thick quilts.

  For the last ten years, she’d risen before dawn to begin breakfast. In San Francisco the mornings had been her favorite time. A little peace and quiet, just her, her pots and pastry recipes before the day began.

  But here the day’s tasks felt as formidable as the mountains she’d crossed.

  Abby had told Mr. Barrington Montana would not get the better of her. But she’d never prove that to him lying in bed.

  Abby rose from the bed and reached for the lantern and match. She lit the wick. Squinting against the light, she wished she could sleep another half hour, even as she tossed back the covers. Because of the rat, she’d kept her clothes and her boots on all last night. Rubbing her hands on her arms, she summoned the courage and climbed down the ladder to survey her kitchen.

  Mr. Barrington’s deep, even breathing filled the quiet cabin and like a moth to a flame she turned and looked toward his bed. He lay on his side, his long muscular body filling the bed. His arm was draped over the boys, who huddled close for warmth. There was no doubt the man loved his sons.

  Smiling, Abby turned from the scene. Her smile vanished when she saw the supplies from town, unloaded by Mr. Barrington last night, littering the floor. Sacks of flour, beans and sugar were piled high on boxes that contained tins filled with fruits and vegetables. She’d need more light to sort through the goods, so she maneuvered past the store-bought goods to the kitchen.

  Abby set her lantern down on the shelf above the cold stove. As she turned to search for kindling and matches she stumbled over a child’s shoe. She lurched forward and caught herself on the kitchen table. A plate on the table rattled like a church bell. A few choice words she’d learned from the cook staff came to mind.

  In the silence, her toe throbbing she heard Mr. Barrington turn over in his bed. She peered past the glow of lantern light into the darkness and watched him roll to his back. For a moment she imagined that he was watching her.

  Standing perfectly still, she waited, hoping she’d not woken him or the boys. She didn’t need Mr. Barrington seeing just how awkward and clumsy she was this morning. Several seconds passed. He didn’t move and soon, his deep even breathing filled the morning stillness. Relief washed over her. At least he wouldn’t be hovering close waiting for her to fail.

  Abby soon found a pile of wood in a metal wood-box and near it matches. Kindling in hand, she opened the small door at the base of the stove and laid the wood inside.

  Her hands trembled with cold as she squatted before the small opening and lit the dried twigs with a match. Cupping her hand around the flame, she held it under her fragile pile of sticks and waited for the fire to catch.

  Slowly the fire flickered to life. The dried wood cracked and popped. Gingerly, Abby laid larger pieces of wood on the fire, blowing gently until the flames burned bright.

  She set back on her heels smiling. She’d started hundreds of stove fires in her life but none had given her more satisfaction.

  Over the next hour, she encountered obstacle on top of obstacle. First it was venturing outside into the cold, tramping through the three inches of snow to the rain barrel and cracking through the layer of ice with her bucket to get water for coffee. Then it was sorting through the assortment of empty tins until she found the coffee and then the grinder. Then there was the matter of a clean mixing bowl. With none to be found, she was forced to wash one of the dirty wooden bowls stacked on the counter. It was caked with unrecognizable dough.

  No matter which direction she turned there was a roadblock. This cabin, like Mr. Barrington, was daring her to quit.

  Like a spoiled mistress, Montana was beautiful but exacting. But Abby was used to the spoiled and difficult.

  Her only saving grace was that Mr. Barrington had slept through it all and not witnessed her struggles.

  As Matthias lay on his back and listened to Miss Smyth move about the kitchen, he would have sworn a herd of Buffalo made less noise.

  He’d awoken the instant she’d turned on her lantern, about four by his reckoning. He’d been surprised when she’d risen so early. Knowing the mess she faced, he half expected her to give up and go back to bed once she got a good look at it. But she hadn’t gone back to bed. She’d continued to plow through the mess, banging her pots and pans as she worked.

  To his surprise, as the first bits of morning sun seeped through the window, the delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the cabin.

  Matthias propped his hands under his head and looked into the kitchen. He expected to see Miss Smyth, standing tall. But in the deceptive morning light, he saw a woman, kneeling by the stove, her face turned in profile. And for just a moment, he imagined he saw Elise.

  He sucked in a sharp breath and vaulted out of the bed. He’d worn his shirt and pants to bed, but
the cold air burned through his clothing as he raked a trembling hand through his hair.

  Startled, she turned. “You’re awake.”

  The sound of her voice calmed him immediately, banishing the specters from the past. “Yeah.”

  Regaining his balance, he pulled on his boots and laced them up.

  She brushed nervous hands on her apron— Elise’s apron. “Good morning,” she said. “I’ve made coffee.”

  Silent, he watched as she poured him a cup of hot coffee from the pot Elise had brought from Missouri.

  Unreasonable irritation grated over his bones as he stepped toward the warm stove and reached for the cup she offered. His fingers brushed hers. The cup warmed his icy fingers. And despite his best intentions to remain aloof, his gaze held hers and a fizzle of energy shot through his body. Before Elise had gotten sick, their first mornings had been spent making love and it had taken all that was in him to leave her so that he could do his chores. He’d not allowed himself to think about those days for a long time and the fact that Abby’s presence was fueling those memories churned his guilt.

  Blushing under his gaze, she turned back to her sink. “The last thing I expected today was snow. It was so warm yesterday.” Her tone sounded stilted, formal.

  “Late spring storms happen, but I’d hoped that after the last few warm days we’d finally turned the corner,” he said.

  “Will it last long?”

  The morning chill had added color to her cheeks and sunlight caught her hair, casting a honey-blond hue. “Hopefully not long.”

  “Do you have a lot to do today?”

  “I’ve got to ride out and check the herds. A few calves were born a couple of weeks ago. I need to see how they fared.”

  He cradled the cup in his hand then sipped it. To his surprise it tasted good. Real good. Foolish but he was almost sorry for it. He wanted her to do something wrong—something to prove that she was better off leaving.

  “I haven’t sorted through the kitchen yet, so I won’t be able to make you a hot breakfast but Frank left behind hard tack and I’ve sliced some ham.”