“Next spring?” His tone was incredulous as Conrad stepped away from her, his face frozen in a mask of horror. “Why did you ever let yourself get in such a bind, Miss Rachel? Is the contract…”
“There is no contract, only my word. I promised him I would stay that long.” She took a deep breath, her fingers twitching, her mouth feeling the need of a drink of water. Conrad had left her dry and empty, and the disappointment was harsh. She’d really thought…
In her daydreams she’d considered what life in town might be. What it would be like to be part of a small community, perhaps married to one of the leaders of the town, to watch each Sunday as he ushered folks into church and carried an offering plate.
It wasn’t enough. With sudden certainty, she recognized the barren life she would lead, a life in which Cord McPherson would play no part.
“Let’s finish this dance inside, Mr. Carson,” she said quietly, turning toward the brightly lit building behind them.
Her foot was on the wagon wheel when she was gripped from behind. “You’re coming home with me.” Cord’s voice in her ear was not totally unexpected, and she smiled in the darkness. Her foot slid to the ground and she turned to face him.
“Is there a problem?” Her voice sounded breathless to her ears, and she swallowed, wishing for another sip of lemonade.
“None that I can’t handle,” Cord answered. “I’ll be taking Rachel home,” he told Lorena, who stood with her parents just beyond the tailgate. In the back of the wagon the Claypool boys were wrestling, tossing hay back and forth, ignoring the adults who played out a silent scene.
Mr. Claypool nodded his understanding, his wife and Lorena exchanging glances. “We’ll see you Monday morning,” Cord said to Lorena. “Maybe you’d better think about bringing your things and spending nights at the house. There’s plenty of bedrooms upstairs. You can pret’ near have your pick.”
“I’ll think about it,” Lorena answered, slanting a look of promise at Rachel.
Cord’s arm circled her waist and Rachel was spun around with ease, her feet headed in the direction of the McPherson buggy, tied beneath a tree next to the road.
“I have a notion you were standing not far from here when Conrad made his pitch,” he told her, lifting her to the high seat.
She looked down at him, watching as his hands tucked her skirts inside the buggy. “Were you spying on me?”
He moved soundlessly around the heads of the team, untying the horses from the metal ring that had been drilled into the tree. It wasn’t until he was seated beside her that he deigned to answer her accusation.
“I watched from outside the door.” He flicked the reins over the horses’ backs, making a sound with his tongue and teeth that set them on their way at a slow trot. His look was all encompassing as he turned halfway in the seat.
“You’re my responsibility, Rachel. You work in my home and I’m planning on marrying you.”
Her mouth opened and then closed. If she’d thought it dry before, it was an arid desert now. Such nerve. That he would consider her a package, bought and paid for.
“I don’t remember accepting a proposal from you,” she said finally, looking straight ahead into the night
He shrugged and she felt the movement against her shoulder. She shifted in the seat, unwilling to touch him in even this small way, so angry at his assumption she could have screeched her fury to the stars.
“You let me kiss you, Rachel. More than once, in fact. I talked to you about living on the ranch. I thought we had an understanding of sorts.”
She stiffened. “Conrad kissed me, too. That didn’t make me his intended.”
His snort of disgust was immediate. “That was no kiss! The man barely touched you. And now that I think about it, he had no right to do even that. He’s not man enough for a woman like you, Rachel.”
She turned to face him, peering at the sharp line of his profile. His nose was a little too big, his jaw a little too firm for her liking and his hat was drawn down, hiding his eyes from her view.
“A woman like me? What does that mean?”
Cord halted the team and in an instant he’d spanned her waist with his hands, tugging her against him. Giving no quarter, he scooped her slender form into an embrace that allowed her no leeway, his head bending to her face. The bonnet she’d tied with such care was unfastened with two fingers, long, lean fingers that tugged at the strings and then removed the saucy little impediment with a careless gesture.
His own hat was tossed to the floor, and as Rachel’s mouth opened to protest his high-handed actions, his lips covered hers with a determination she could only accept, given no alternative but to submit to the heated passion of his mouth.
He kissed her as if she were a drink of water and he had been without sustenance for days. His mouth opened over hers, his teeth rubbing at her lips, gaining entrance as she gasped her protest.
As if he allowed passion full sway, he kissed her. No teasing touches, but a thorough, sweeping inventory of the secrets she held within the damp recesses of her mouth. He traveled the ridges beneath her tongue, searched the tight channel between teeth and cheek, vied with her for entry beyond the roof of her mouth and subsided only when she sagged against him.
“I haven’t got an ounce of civilization in me tonight, Rachel. Seeing you with all those men, dancing circles around every other woman in the place…Damn! I’m about as randy as I’ve ever been in my life.” He shook his head, his mouth attempting a smile and failing miserably.
He leaned to her, whispering in her ear, his words an apology. “I should be kissing you like Conrad did, with some amount of gentility. Let me try it again.”
He was gentle as his lips touched hers again, and she allowed the caress. “We’re going to have to get married, Rachel. You’re in my blood and that’s a fact!”
His voice was like buggy wheels on gravel. “I want you in my bed so bad it’s a wonder I don’t cart you off there tonight.”
She wiggled against him, her hands pushing against his chest. “There you go again! Damn you, Cord McPherson! Just who do you think you are?”
He put her aside, his hands trembling with the effort. Taking up the reins, he set the horse in motion, his jaw set.
“I’m the man who’s going to marry you, and don’t think for one minute you can change my mind. You can try to lead me a merry chase, but I won’t give you much of a lead line, Rachel. There’ll be no more kisses in the moonlight with Conrad Carson, no more dances with every man Jack in the county.”
“I may be your cook and housekeeper, Cord McPherson, but I’m not your wife yet, and if I were you, I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it ever coming to pass. You’re about the most arrogant, hardheaded man I’ve ever met.” She spit the words in his direction, her heart beating a rapid pace, whether from anger or the kisses he’d pressed upon her, she didn’t know.
She only knew that this man could raise her ire faster than lightning and at the same time churn her insides into a rushing river of desire with just the touch of his hands and the heat of his kisses.
Right now the angry lightning was way ahead of the desire he’d stirred into being. With trembling hands she lifted her bonnet from the floorboards and tied it into place.
The kitchen, already warm with the morning sun, was dense with the heat of Rachel’s anger. Cord felt it to the core of his being as he watched her from the doorway. She’d heard his ultimatum last night and wrenched herself from his hold, sitting stiff and unbending by his side until the buggy drew up to the house.
Her exit had been rapid and awkward, her skirts pulling up to expose her legs as she slid from the seat. She’d spent only seconds regaining her dignity before she stomped up the steps and into the house.
He’d watched from the buggy seat, dead certain that he’d botched the whole thing, his lips still flavored with her taste, as the woman he’d chosen as his own flaunted her denial of his claim.
This morning she was still operating on a full h
ead of steam, and he bade his tongue remain under control, lest he add fuel to the flame of her anger.
“Good morning, Rachel.”
She muttered a sound that might have contained an epithet. Her hands were fierce in their strength, beating the bejabbers out of a bowlful of eggs. The sound of sizzling butter in the big skillet apparently was a signal, for she poured the contents of her bowl into the pan.
“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes.” Clipped and cool, the words were aimed at the high back of her cookstove and she reached to open the warming oven there, exposing a platter of pancakes ready for the table.
A flat griddle on the stove bore four more, and Cord grinned his delight. Apparently a temper hadn’t damaged her cooking skills.
He stepped out onto the porch, catching sight of men inside the barn, hearing their voices in the clear, early-morning air. His indrawn breath caught the scent of honeysuckle vines at the end of the porch, and a vision of his mother sprang to mind.
She’d planted those vines, more years ago than he wanted to count, the spring before she’d died. The anger old Harvey McPherson had lived with from that day forward was a memory that had almost blighted Cord’s soul. He shook his head.
Even Pa would not cast a blemish on this day. He might wear the scars, but he refused to allow them souldeep.
The sound of Rachel within his house lifted his spirits, and he reached for the bell rope hanging just beyond the railing. A quick tug on it caught the attention of the men working in the corral and within the depths of the barn. A wave of acknowledgment from Buck and Shamus was his answer, and he turned back to the kitchen door.
The table was covered with a long piece of checkered oilcloth, an addition Rachel had made during her first week at the ranch, looking to him for approval before she’d had Conrad cut it to length at the emporium. Easier to keep clean than the wooden tabletop, she’d said.
The plates were centered between a knife and fork, a glass jar of spoons in the middle of the table. Thick cups awaited the coffeepot, and Rachel turned with a platter of pancakes in each hand, setting them on the table as he entered the door. The skillet of eggs steamed at the back of the stove and she lifted it to dump the contents into a crockery bowl.
She was strong, this woman he’d chosen, and he gloried in the knowledge of her, that he knew the depth of her courage, the width of her determination. Her gaze met his across the table and she lifted her chin, defiance alive in her blue eyes.
“I’ll be taking my wagon to town this morning. I’m going to church,” she announced. “I’d appreciate it if one of the men could harness my horses after breakfast.”
He rocked back on his heels. “You gettin’ soft, Rachel? Forget how to harness the team?” It tickled him to watch the flush of anger creep up her throat and blend with the rosy hue caused by the heat of her oven.
“I’ve not forgotten anything, Mr. McPherson. I should have remembered that you’re not a gentleman. I can take care of it myself, thank you.”
“We’ll go to church in my wagon, Rachel. The boys can sit in the back.”
She opened her mouth, and her eyes swept to the doorway, where Moses and Jamie were edging each other past the screen door. Her look in his direction was a challenge as she spun in place, reaching for a plate from the cupboard, her hands busy as she filled it with an abundance of hot food.
It clunked onto the tray she’d readied beforehand and she picked up the weight of it, careful not to spill the cup of coffee she’d poured for Jake. Her skirts swished against the doorjamb as she left the kitchen, and Cord sat down to devour his share of the breakfast she’d prepared.
The library door was partway open, and she nudged it with her toe. “Jake? I have your breakfast.” Her eyes took in the dim shadows of the room, and she headed for the bed.
“You still asleep? The morning’s half-over,” she said brightly, unwilling to allow her anger with his brother to spill over onto the man who occupied this room.
“I’m here, Rachel.”
She blinked, settling the tray on a smooth corner of the bedding, and turned to the sound of his voice. Stepping to the window, she pulled aside the heavy draperies and fastened them with the ties he’d undone the night before. She turned, willing her lips to curve into a smile, and then discovered it was not a chore to do so.
He’d shaved. Sometime between yesterday afternoon and this morning, he’d managed to use a razor, revealing a mouth that twitched a bit at her wide-eyed response. His chin was strong, jutting forward, putting her in mind of Cord’s profile last night in the buggy.
“Well, you look presentable for a change,” she said, her brow lifting just a bit. “Do you want to eat at the table?” Carrying the tray, she obeyed his nod, arranging his plate and silverware as he rolled the few feet to where she stood.
“The food’s been worth cleaning up for,” he said, casting a sly glance at her. “Thank you.”
She stepped back. Perhaps the shaving had been done for her benefit, but somehow she doubted it More likely, though he might deny it, Lorena Claypool would be the true beneficiary of his foray into civilized behavior. He was being polite this morning, a new side of his character, to be sure, she thought as he placed the napkin across his lap.
“I’m quite a hand with barber scissors,” she told him, stuffing her hands in her apron pockets.
He glanced in her direction, a forkful of pancakes midway to his mouth. “Don’t try to reform me all at once, Miss Rachel.” His words held a tinge of sarcasm and he chewed slowly as he watched her.
“Far be it from me to take advantage of your good mood, Mr. McPherson,” she said, bending to pick up a pillow that had fallen from the bed. She pulled the sheets into place quickly, ignoring the vigilance he turned in her direction.
“Have you thought about attending church? Since you’re spiffed up and all?”
“Don’t push it, ma’am.” He drank from his coffee cup, thumping it back on the tray with an angry gesture. “I’ve allowed you into my sanctuary. I’ve even been polite. Don’t cause me to revert to my normal behavior by offering to haul me off to sing hymns and play the hypocrite.”
“Would spending an hour in church be such a chore?” Rachel fluffed his pillows and replaced them against the high headboard.
“I no longer find it plausible that a benevolent heavenly father would allow such inhumanity to be inflicted on his servants as I saw take place on my journey through the great war.”
Rachel frowned at his statement, taken aback by the derision of his words. “Men fought the war, Mr. McPherson. It was a choice of the North and South. I doubt God Almighty had much to do with it.”
His brow lifted and his head cocked to one side. “And yet both sides held that they fought for a divine reason.” He lifted his fork once more and waved it in her direction.
“I fell for that twaddle, madam. I left a promising career to join up with the Union army, set on freeing the slaves and making my mark, vindicating my presence on this earth. And for what? What did I accomplish? What did any of us accomplish? The South is in shambles, men are dead and buried, or even worse…”
Rachel felt an overwhelming sense of shame as she heard the outburst from the man before her. So little had she really known about the war. She, with her pampered beginnings, her sheltered existence.
And yet, within her was the sure and certain knowledge that even Jake McPherson could gain some measure of comfort from the house of worship. “I can only tell you that there is a God, Jake. For I believe in Him and know that He can comfort in times of distress. I know that He gives me courage when I have none of my own, that He gives me strength to do what I must and that He gives me joy when I enter His house and listen to His word and sing His praises.”
He bent his head. “I bow to your right, Miss Rachel. Trot yourself on to church and sing your songs. I, for one, have no taste for music in any form these days. Nor have I the need for a church full of pious townsfolk staring at me.”
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nbsp; “Call me when you’ve finished your breakfast,” Rachel said politely as she turned to leave the library. Her heart was heavy with the sorrow she sensed dwelling deep inside the soul of Jake McPherson.
His shaggy head lifted, his eyes pinning her where she stood, and his arrogant bearing once more descended upon him like an enveloping cloak.
“You can take the tray now. I’ve finished.”
“You and Jake had quite a talk this morning, Rachel.” Cord glanced at her, his silence broken for the first time since they’d set out for Sunday worship.
“You listened?” she asked, her eyes on the road ahead.
“I came down the hallway to say good-morning to him and overheard a bit. It seemed impolite to intrude.”
Rachel bit at her lip. “He’s a bitter man, Cord.”
“He has a right.”
She looked at him quickly. “You share his bitterness?”
He shrugged. “A little, I guess. It’s easier to be philosophical about the outcome of the war when you can still walk around and function as a man. But I’m reminded every day of the thousands of men who will spend their lives without purpose, tied to a bed or a chair.”
“Don’t you think Jake could have more of a life than he has now? If he truly wanted to be more than he is?”
“Don’t take him on like a charity case, Rachel. He won’t appreciate it.”
She looked away, her heart heavy with the knowledge that, in his own way, Cord McPherson also carried the wounds of the war. Perhaps even a certain amount of guilt, every time he looked at his brother.
“It’s not your fault that Jake was wounded and you came out of the conflict unharmed,” she said finally as the wagon drew up in front of the small church building.
Cord dropped to the ground and turned to face her. “I didn’t fight in the war, Rachel. I chose to stay at home, and after my father had a fit of apoplexy and dropped over, there was no one else to run the ranch.”
The Wedding Promise Page 11