Cord’s big hand snagged the leather halter and drew the animal closer. “Remember me, boy?” His voice was low, his movements easy. “We’re gonna get on just fine, you and me.”
Easing open the door of the stall, he led the stud through the opening, snatching up a bridle from a hook on the outside of the enclosure.
His hands were deft as he exchanged the halter for the bridle and bit, dropping the reins to the ground as he worked. From the rear of the barn, Shamus whistled tunelessly inside the tack room. And then the door closed behind him as he headed back up the broad aisle to where Cord waited.
“Buck and Jamie been sortin’ out the last of the calves. I think that holdin’ pen’s about full already. They’ve been at it a while now, since right after breakfast.”
“I’ll check it out,” Cord answered, swinging his saddle to rest on the broad back of the stud with a lithe movement.
“Jake under the weather?” Shamus’s question was carefully casual. “He wasn’t around for supper last night and Sam didn’t mention him this morning.”
“Just a bad spell,” Cord muttered. “He gets in a mood and won’t eat. Sam just has to let him get past it on his own.”
“What does your new cook think about takin’ care of him?” Shamus asked guardedly.
Cord lifted into the saddle. “She doesn’t know about him yet, and she won’t be doin’ the takin’ care of anyway. I’ll talk to her at dinnertime.”
Shamus grunted his displeasure. “You better hope he doesn’t take to havin’ a tantrum in there.” His head nodded at the big house. “She’ll be skedaddlin’ to town faster than you can blink.”
His chuckle was low and his eyes lit with humor. “Damn, that gal sure can bake up a good pan of biscuits, McPherson. You better hang on to her.”
His stallion sidestepped in a skittish dance as Cord cleared the barn door and he held the reins firmly, his voice low as he spoke to the animal. Beside the corral fence, Rachel’s brothers watched, wide-eyed as the big horse vied for control with the man atop his back.
“You boys lookin’ for a job to do?” Cord called out.
Henry nodded. “Yessir, we can help out. Rachel said we were to pitch in.”
“Go inside the barn and tell Shamus I sent you. He’ll put you to work gatherin’ the eggs and tendin’ to the chickens.”
Henry’s smile lost its shine. “I thought maybe we could help with the horses, sir.”
“Start with chickens and work your way up, boy. Your sister won’t have time to tend to them this morning.”
“I brushed down my pa’s horses,” Henry said quietly, unwilling to be relegated to tending the hens.
Cord’s eyes narrowed as he took in the boy’s stance, shoulders back and chin uptilted. “Take care of the hens today, and I’ll let you give a hand tomorrow morning with the yearling colts.”
Henry’s eyes brightened with excitement and he nodded quickly. “Yessir, that’ll be just fine. Me and Jay can sure learn how to feed chickens in a hurry.”
Jay nodded his agreement, standing almost behind his brother. “Yessir, we can do that.”
Cord jerked at the brim of his hat, forcing it firmly against his forehead. “Don’t get into trouble, now.”
Two small heads swung in unison. “Oh, no sir, we won’t,” Jay warbled, poking at his big brother. “Did you hear, Henry?” he asked in his clear treble voice. “We get to be in the barn tomorrow.”
Cord’s stallion moved out quickly, and he watched as the two boys scampered toward the barn door, Henry calling for Shamus as they went.
Across the yard, Rachel stood on the back porch, shaking the dust a dozen feet had deposited before breakfast on the small braided rug she held. Her hair gleaming in the morning sunshine, she watched as he rode past the corral, meeting his gaze across the grassy expanse.
“Probably ought to take time now to talk to her about Jake,” Cord muttered to himself, regretful that he hadn’t said something last night.
From beyond the barns, a shout caught his attention and he swung in that direction, where a cloud of dust bespoke activity. A spiral of smoke from a fire caught the breeze and he sniffed at the scent of burning wood. The men were setting up shop without him, it seemed.
With a nudge of his heel, the horse beneath him turned in the direction of the holding pen, and within minutes Cord was enmeshed in the branding of his calves.
Setting a pot of beef to simmer on the back of the stove, Rachel surveyed her kitchen. Though it belonged to Cord McPherson, it had become hers the moment she donned an apron yesterday afternoon.
Already, she had rearranged the pantry shelves to her liking, adding her own meager stores to the bountiful supply of tins and sacks gracing the shelves. That any one household should be so blessed by an abundance of foodstuffs was almost beyond belief.
A thrill of anticipation brightened her eyes and lightened her steps as she gathered the ingredients for the beef stew she planned for the noon meal. The meat was cut up and browned right after breakfast, with several onions adding a tangy scent. She’d found a sack of sprouting potatoes and upended them in the sink, sorting and scraping at the lot.
Somewhere outdoors, she decided, there must be a cellar where the garden produce had been stored for the winter.
The pantry held cans of peaches and she determined to make a cobbler, with sweet biscuits crusting it. Then she’d discovered the jars of home-canned applesauce and her eyes had widened at the sight of such luxury. Traveling from Pennsylvania had inured her to the prospect of dried and unpalatable fruit, not to mention the absence of fresh meat, except for the rabbits her father had managed to shoot along the way.
Her heart sang with the pleasure of putting roses in the cheeks of Jay and Henry once more, too long fed with oatmeal and cornbread, a handful of greens and an occasional fish. Henry had brought down a few rabbits, but she’d had a hard time cleaning the small specimens he’d managed to bring home.
Her mind wandered as she peeled potatoes, setting them aside in a pan of water to wait for the stew to be ready, her mouth shaping the words of a song as she sang beneath her breath.
The memory of a piano she’d spied in the front parlor yesterday afternoon entered her mind, and she thought with longing of the music hidden in those black and white keys.
Cord McPherson had walked her past those open double doors guarding the formal room at one side of the house, affording her but a glimpse of the beautiful instrument. Perhaps she could just take another look, maybe even open the other doors on that long hallway.
A house of this size was a wonderment. That Cord McPherson was a man of means had been a given. After all, he owned the ranch. That his home should be so fine was a pleasure beyond her imagining.
Wiping her hands on the dish towel she’d tucked into her apron, Rachel looked around the kitchen. Midmorning sunshine splashed across the pine floor, too strong to be stopped by the streaked windows.
She’d do well to get out a keg of vinegar and wash them, instead of considering poking her nose into the nooks and crannies of Cord McPherson’s home, she thought virtuously. And then with a twirl of skirts and a girlish laugh stifled with her open palm, she left her apron behind and set off down the hallway.
The parlor was magnificent, with a plush sofa much like the one that had graced their own parlor in Pennsylvania. The library desk beneath the window held an assortment of pictures and small ornaments that beckoned her invitingly.
She paused beside the mantelpiece, admiring the brass figures and marble pieces gathered there for display, then hesitated in the middle of the room to turn in a full circle. Coming to a halt, Rachel faced the piano, her mouth opening, a soft, yearning sound passing her lips.
Her feet moved soundlessly across the carpet in the center of the wooden floor, her soft-soled shoes a whisper. With reverent fingers, she lifted the lid that covered the keys and eased it to its open position. One finger touched white ivory, and she tilted her head as she heard the clear ton
e of hammer striking string within the instrument.
“Ohhhh…!” It was more than a whispered exclamation of delight From the depths of her soul, the yearning of her hungry heart expressed itself.
Music. The gift that eased the longings of her spirit, that fed her, nourishing her with beauty beyond bearing.
The temptation was more than she could resist. Rachel slid onto the bench, yielding to the attraction of the sounds held captive within the depths of the instrument before her. Lifting her hands, she placed them on the keys.
A melody flowed with liquid beauty from beneath her right hand, the fingers of the left adding a counterpoint of chords and running trills. Her eyes closed with the sheer ecstasy of it and she bent her head, her ear attuned to each note.
From the hallway a roar of disbelief sounded, a bellow of rage that halted her hands in their melodious pursuit. She spun on the bench, one leg half-bent beneath her as she looked over her shoulder.
Framed in the wide doorway was a man, sitting in an invalid’s chair. Empty pant legs hung lankly to the foot rest, only one knee curved over the seat. His hair hung to his shoulders in dark disarray. Bearded and hunched, looking like a beast set on ravishing the cause of his anger, he leaned in Rachel’s direction.
“I’m so sorry I disturbed you.” It was barely more than a whisper, spoken from between trembling lips. Her hands were clenched between her breasts, her heart beating a rapid cadence beneath her fists.
But he paid her apology no attention, his whole being seemingly bound by the furious rage that impelled him. His hands gripped the wheels and he spun them, sending his vehicle surging in her direction. Dark eyes, narrowed and blazing with an unholy anger, stopped her breath in her throat as she met his gaze with dismay.
And then he halted, midway across the room, and snarled a curse that fell on her ears and caused her to draw an unbelieving breath. He spun the wheels once more and the chair bumped against the piano bench, jarring her from her frozen pose of horror.
One hand reached toward him, as if to fend off his attack, and he cast the trembling fingers a look of such scorn as to cause them to fall back in her lap.
“I beg your pardon, sir…” The words were stronger this time as her mind raced, seeking an answer to the appearance of this creature before her.
And then he spoke, the words spaced as if uttered in the presence of an idiot, to whom he must make himself clearly understood.
“Who the hell are you?”
Chapter Four
Rachel caught her breath with a shuddering gasp, her words barely a whisper. “My name is Rachel Sinclair.” She swayed where she sat, expecting to be shunted from her perch momentarily.
The rolling chair backed a few inches and thumped again against the padded seat, jarring her. Her hand grasped for purchase and she caught her balance, her long, slender fingers clutching at the arm of the chair.
Horror-stricken, her eyes fastened on the man before her and she flinched as he plucked her fingers from his chair, dropping them from his grasp with contempt. He brushed his palm against his patchwork lap robe and her gaze was drawn to the gesture.
Long, elegant fingers, pale with winter’s flesh, wiped her warmth from his skin. It was an insult she could not ignore.
“I beg your pardon. I wasn’t aware that I was disturbing anyone with my playing, sir.” Pleased at the even tenor of her words, she lifted her chin to face the disheveled intruder.
Beneath lowered brows, his gaze was fierce, his voice rasping. “Who gave you leave to be in here? This piano is not to be touched. Not by anyone.”
Rachel lowered her leg to the floor and slid from the bench, easing beyond the end of the keyboard. Retreat seemed to be in order. “Mr. McPherson didn’t say…I’m afraid I’ve overstepped, sir.”
The doorway looming over his shoulder was wide and inviting. Rachel eyed it, wondering if he would attempt to stop her should she scamper past him. His agility in the chair he’d maneuvered so easily gave her pause as she considered.
“What are you doing in this house?” His query was forced between taut lips, his flaring nostrils adding to an air of fury that was punctuated by the spacing of his words.
“I’m the new cook,” she managed. “Mr. McPherson hired me to do the laundry and fix meals.”
And if Cord McPherson knew what was good for him, he’d have a dandy explanation for this little episode.
The intruder’s snort of derision was accompanied by the spinning of wheels as he turned his chair about and headed for the double doors of the parlor. “Out of my way, Sam,” he directed, rolling past the bewhiskered man who watched from the hall. “Cord’s brought home a play toy.” His glance back in her direction was mocking. “Take a gander.”
Rachel’s cheeks burned at the slur as she lifted one hand to cover her mouth, lest she let loose the response that burned to be spoken. How dare he? To insinuate such a thing was reprehensible, a grievous smear against her honor.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Sam Bostwick’s head bobbed as he tendered his apologies. “Jake’s been out of sorts for a couple of days now.”
“That’s Mr. McPherson’s brother?” Her eyes widened at Sam’s nod. “I thought…” She shook her head. What had she thought? Perhaps that the elusive brother was an invalid?
And apparently he was. But a more hateful man she’d never met. Her back stiffened as she considered the words he had flung at her.
He’d called her Cord’s play toy. She, who’d been a churchgoing woman all of her life, who had been above reproach in all things, had today been referred to as a man’s…Her mind could not even form the thought
Surely she could no longer stay in this house, not when her reputation was in danger of being dragged through the mud of scandal.
“Ma’am, I’m sure sorry Jake took on thataway,” Sam said quietly, his sad eyes fastened on Rachel’s countenance. “I knew Cord shoulda told you about him last night at the supper table. But, honest to God, Mr. Jake’s not usually so downright mean.”
Rachel brushed her hand against Sam’s sleeve. “He just wasn’t what I expected, Mr. Bostwick.” She edged past him, heading for the kitchen.
“Damnation! Just when we got ourselves a decent cook, things gotta blow around here.” Disgust was in Sam’s voice as he watched the young woman’s hurried escape. Behind him doors slammed, and the sound of breaking glass caused him to wince as he turned to trudge reluctantly back to the rear of the house.
Rachel was primed to blow. Her eyes met Cord’s as he walked through the kitchen door, and a sense of dread slowed his steps. Quickly, he scanned the kitchen, breathing easier when he caught the aroma ascending from the steaming kettle on the stove and noted the platter of biscuits in the center of the table.
A crock of butter and a bowl of jam nudged the plate, and he set his jaw as he considered the young woman who was noisily scattering silverware and plates down the length of the bare table.
“Smells good, Rachel. Want me to call the men in for dinner?” That they were already washing up at the pump was obvious, their raucous joking audible through the kitchen window. Rachel ignored his offer, turning to the stove to fill thick crockery bowls with beef stew.
“Heard tell you had a fuss in the parlor this morning.” Cord was beside her as he spoke, his big hands taking the bowls as she filled them, setting them in place on the table.
She cast him a sidelong glance. “You didn’t tell me your brother was a madman, Mr. McPherson.”
His face reddened at her choice of words, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. “I don’t know as I’d call him mad, Rachel. That’s a pretty strong statement.”
She handed him the last bowl. Her look was direct, her face flushed with remembered embarrassment. “You weren’t there.”
He cleared his throat. “Sam told me what happened. Seems Jake took offense at you playing the piano.”
“Your brother insinuated you had brought me here for your—”
“I heard abou
t that,” Cord cut in quickly. “I’ll set him straight.”
“You could have told me about him. You could have warned me not to infringe on his territory. And you could have let me know about his vile temper.”
Cord’s shrug acknowledged her accusations, his nod accepting blame. “I wanted you to see the house and give you a chance to look things over first. I thought knowing about Jake would put you off. Putting up with his moods is enough to discourage a saint.”
“And I ain’t anywheres near a saint,” grumbled Sam Bostwick from the kitchen doorway. “I’ve about had it with that brother of yours, Cord. If I hadn’t known the man before the war, I swear I’d never spend another minute takin’ his guff.”
“He calmed down yet, Sam?” Cord asked.
“Yeah. But he sure was a sight to behold, goin’ after this young’un. It’s a wonder she didn’t hightail it outta here.”
“Would you like to take him some dinner?” Her innate sense of courtesy nudged Rachel into making the offer as she filled another bowl with stew.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Sam said, taking a wooden tray from atop the cabinet near the stove. Scooping up silverware from the table, he piled several biscuits on a plate, dolloping jam and butter on the side.
“I’ll be back out here to eat with y’all presently,” he said, carrying his laden tray from the kitchen.
“Doesn’t your brother ever eat at the table?” Rachel asked.
“Once in a while. Not often.”
She glanced at Cord, her ear attuned to the bleak response. “Is he always so fierce?”
His grunt of laughter was without humor. “That’s a good word for him. Fierce. Maybe bitter would describe him more accurately. He hasn’t found much to laugh about in the past years.”
Not like this bunch coming in the door, Rachel thought, an unbidden smile twisting her lips as the noisy cowhands invaded the quiet kitchen. Jostling for position, they fit through the doorway, finding their seats at the long table.
The Wedding Promise Page 5