The 12 Brides Of Summer (Novella Collection Book 4)

by Vickie McDonough

  “Mrs. Powell?”

  “Oh—yes, Mr. Wellington.” She stashed her curiosity and opened her reticule. If only the stranger could work his sleight of hand with her meager savings, then she would not be weighing the value of sugar over sorghum molasses and Arbuckles’ over tea. Wellington penciled her items on his notepad, tore off the sheet, and slid it across the counter. Lucy read the figure and drew a deep breath. “I don’t know what we—”

  He raised a palm to interrupt. “Good Lord takes care of us all, Mrs. Powell. ’Sides, what the Spruce City school board gives you I am sure would not keep a tiger in stripes.”

  “Fredrick, really.” The man’s wife swept around the end of the counter and swatted his shoulder with a feathery touch. What a pair they were, one tall and squeaky, the other plump yet elegant. But a pair, two halves of one whole. “It’s none of our business what Mrs. Powell receives.” Rosemary Wellington’s cheeks puffed with a pleasant smile as the children giggled over the sacks her husband handed them with much more than a penny’s worth of candy in each.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wellington,” Cecilia said in her most proper voice.

  “Thank you,” Elmore parroted.

  Rosemary shook her head. “Looks like Mr. Reiter has been at it again.”

  Reiter. That was it. Buck Reiter, the next rancher over the ridge who ran horses with his widowed sister. Pulling the draw on her reticule, Lucy turned casually toward the hardware and stole another quick glance. The man helped raise his nephew, from what Lucy had heard, though that was years before she and William came to Spruce City. The boy was grown and married now, just last Christmas, if she recalled correctly.

  Ducking her head, she fingered the hair knotted at her neck and caught the sweep of her black wool, so dark and hot for the summer’s work ahead. Tomorrow she’d pack it away. Cows and coyotes would not notice if she put off her widow’s weeds a bit early.

  “I’ll load your supplies and have you on your way quick as a wink.” Wellington hefted a sack of flour on one shoulder and headed out, while his wife shuttled the children through the door to wait on the boardwalk. Then she turned to Lucy.

  “I am so glad you’re not leaving us, dear, but do you have anyone to help you? There are several strapping boys here in town who could lend a hand.”

  Indeed there were, but with what would Lucy pay them? Free spelling and arithmetic lessons they’d left behind for the summer? She smiled at Rosemary’s kindness. “I want to see what needs doing first. Maybe then I’ll have someone help me find the cattle and build up the woodpile.”

  Lucy shivered, but not with cold. The woodpile had indirectly led to William’s death when rogue lightning struck the tree he was cutting. A throat cleared and she looked up to see Mr. Reiter crumpling his hat in his hands again. She squelched the urge to slap his fingers.

  “We’ve wood for three winters at our place, ma’am. I’d be happy to bring over a wagonload.”

  The man confessed to eavesdropping, yet showed not one shred of embarrassment. She pulled the cord of her already tightened reticule and looked out the storefront windows. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. We will be fine.” Accepting Mr. Wellington’s deliberately poor ciphering skills was one thing, but taking charity from a neighbor she could never repay was quite another.

  His retreating boots pricked her pride. A part of her wouldn’t mind seeing the deep-voiced Buck Reiter drive into their yard with a wagonload of wood. But a bigger part feared letting anyone see how bad things really were.

  CHAPTER 2

  Liquid they were, and warm, like hot syrup on biscuits. The widow Powell’s dark eyes sent a shiver up Buck’s spine in spite of the sweat collecting at his hatband. She had scrutinized his beard as if it held clues to his breakfast, and he pulled his fingers through it, hearing again his sister’s scolding to shave.

  Picking up a Gem Food Chopper he didn’t need, he nodded at Priscilla Wellington’s prattle about the ease of grinding vegetables and meat. Wouldn’t he be a dandy with a food mill in his saddlebags, breaking trail through the mountains on the hunt for high pasture—which reminded him why he was in the mercantile to begin with. He’d volunteered to pick up Lilly’s supplies so he could lay in his own provisions without causing a stir. He didn’t need much, just some ground coffee and dried beef. Beans, salt pork, canned fruit. Come to think of it, he needed a plate and cup, too. Lilly would fuss and fret and try to make him stay, but it was time. He had a string of mares and a fine yearling colt comin’ on as his share of the ranch. If his sister looked straight at the situation, she’d see that twelve years were enough. She and her boy had moved on with their lives. It was time he did the same.

  He huffed and cranked the chopper’s wooden handle. The widow had turned him down flat. Fool woman. Did she expect to chop her own wood and do all the chores herself with two young’uns? He cut a look her way, and like a queen she bid Wellington’s wife good-bye, walked out to her buckboard, climbed in, and drove away. Again he combed his fingers through his beard.

  Two hours later, he drove beneath the high gate where HORNE RANCH hung across the road on a long flat timber. He’d burned the sign himself when he wasn’t much more than a colt. A wedding gift for Lilly and her new husband, Nathaniel Horne. Buck never dreamed that a decade later, the ranch would become his home for the next dozen years—years that most men use to find a place of their own and raise a family. But he couldn’t leave his big sister and her boy alone in the Rocky Mountains after Nathaniel died. No more than he could turn a deaf ear to what he heard today at Wellington’s.

  Lucy Powell didn’t want his help, but it wasn’t in him to sit by idle when he had what she needed. Besides, his days as substitute father and foreman were near done, and he’d be setting out soon.

  When he pulled up at the ranch house, Lilly and Nate’s wife, Ara, were wrestling sheets at the line. Ara stopped to press her hands against her arched back, looking like she carried two foals instead of one. Lilly would have his hide if she heard him comparing her daughter-in-law to a mare, but there wasn’t that much difference between animals and people when it came to bringing on new ones. Beetle lay in the shade by the open barn door, which meant Nate was inside mucking stalls. A mongrel pup tugged on the dog’s ear the same way leaving the ranch tugged on Buck’s insides.

  He stacked their stores on the wide porch, and Lilly came out the front door with a pitcher and two glasses.

  “I don’t know what we’d do without you.” She handed him a glass and took one of the rockers. He folded into the other and nearly told her exactly what she’d do without him. She’d do just fine.

  “Glad to help.” He pulled off his hat, sleeved his forehead, and downed half the lemonade. Too early for the evening breeze. Everything but his thoughts stood still and held its breath, waiting for a break in the heat. “You know the widow Powell?”

  Lilly slowly nodded and set the rocker to moving. “The new teacher. Lost her husband late last summer when dry lightning sparked a fire. Searchers found him beneath a charred tree, didn’t they?”

  “That’d be the one.” He finished off his glass and reached for the pitcher on the railing. “Saw her at Wellington’s today.”

  Lilly stilled her chair with a toe. “I thought she was leaving, selling out.”

  He cut his sister a look. “Like you did?”

  She eyed him over her glass and pushed damp hair off her forehead. “I never considered leaving, not for one second. Then you showed up.” Her weathered hand patted his on the rocker arm and gave a slight squeeze. “Nate and I would not have survived here without you.”

  An old conversation, played out more times than Buck cared to count. “Good Lord had more to do with it than me.” The good Lord would do right by Lucy Powell, too, but somehow Buck wanted to be in on it. “She was laying in stores, and Wellington’s wife tried to talk her into hiring help. She’s got two babies at her skirt, can’t be more than five or six. I figure she doesn’t have much money because
not much crossed the counter.” He downed the last of his drink. “Other than my two cents.”

  Palming the lemonade from his mustache, he caught Lilly’s look, her thoughts as plain as a pencil mark on a tally sheet. “Remember that trick Pa used to pull when we wanted candy?”

  Lilly resumed her rocking. “I could never manage it without dropping the coin. But if I recall, you were quite good. Even fooled Nate a time or two.”

  He huffed at the memory, a clear reminder of just how long he’d been there. “Gave each young’un a penny and waited around till Wellington loaded her order. From what I could tell, she’s set on getting the place in shape by herself. I offered her a load of firewood, but she turned me down flat.” Another huff and he shoved his hat on, handed Lilly the glass with his thanks. He returned to the wagon.

  She picked up the empty pitcher and paused at the door.

  “So when will you be taking the wood to her?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Lucy stopped the wagon behind the schoolhouse and the children clambered down, candy sacks in hand. She unhitched the horse to graze and slowly mounted the steps into what had been their home for the last nine months. Parting the curtain that hung across the front of the narrow room, she passed through from their meager quarters to the schoolroom proper. In spite of a good scrubbing, chalk dust lingered. The school board’s need of a teacher had met her need of a livelihood, and they had been more than generous to let her live there. A form of charity, yet one she felt she had worked off. She straightened the inkwell and blotter on her desk, and resolve rippled up her spine on a sudden wash of memories.

  Her mother had struggled alone after Pa left, taking in sewing and nearly blinding herself working long hours by lamplight. Lucy’s good grades had spawned hopes of a better life. And when her classmate William Powell said he wanted to leave Chicago’s swelter and go west, she accepted his proposal and went with him. One less mouth for her mother to feed. Now she faced near the same challenge.

  In what remained of the day, Lucy started beans on the woodstove and loaded most of their belongings in the wagon. She set aside extra quilts for tomorrow’s early departure. Cecilia and Elmore could sleep between the sacks and stores. Compared to the pallet on the floor they’d all shared, the wagon ride might be a luxury.

  After a meal of biscuits and canned peaches, she put Cecilia and Elmore to bed early and sat outside on the small back stoop. Dusk dropped down with a sigh, and shadows tucked themselves beneath rocks and roots as she surveyed the small meadow. Crickets took up their chorus, doves joined with their melancholy song, and Mr. Wellington’s words rolled over the grass. The Lord surely had taken care of her and the children through the long winter. And it had taken most of those months to loosen her grip on resentment.

  God had not chosen to keep William alive—a fact with which Lucy was weary of wrestling. Death was not an uncommon visitor in this rugged land, but she’d not expected its sudden and brutal call at her home. Hugging her waist, she closed her eyes and let the evening breeze tug loosened hair and familiar words across her shoulders. “Thou wilt shew me the path of life.” William had often repeated those words in their evening prayers, and for nine long months she had clung to them in his absence. Had he uttered them with his last breath—perhaps not for himself, but for her and the children? Was it his dying prayer she felt cooling her cheek?

  Her job was to live, and to do so, she must accept that God knew what He was doing. She did not have to like it or agree with it. She just had to trust His love. If her children learned nothing else from her, they must learn that.

  “Oh Lord, I am willing, but I need Your help.” The breeze freshened, and she turned at the familiar caress. William had often touched her just as gently, and habit pulled her heart into her throat. She clenched her jaw. Too easily she could melt into a pool of self-pity. But such indulgence drained her strength and left her weak, and she dare not risk weakness if she and the children were to survive.

  CHAPTER 3

  Fumbling in the dark, Lucy buttoned an old house dress, tied on her bonnet, and pulled William’s shotgun from beneath the pallet’s edge. The change of clothing increased her excitement as she bundled her sleepy children into their makeshift bed. She stashed a fragrant pot of warm beans beneath the seat and took the road out of town.

  Was she doing the right thing? Was it fair to Cecilia and Elmore to return to the mountain meadow William had so loved and try to make a go of it? Nearly every night she’d fallen asleep to the same question and wakened the next day with the same answer: “Trust Me.” She hurled the whispered words into the darkness and listened as her doubts splintered beneath them.

  The wagon stole past outlying houses and farms and barking dogs, but her old mare paid no mind and plodded on, memory tugging her home. Dawn spilled over the hills as they climbed toward the higher ranges, and it warmed Lucy’s back once they reached the little valley. A lacy green ribbon of bright aspen rimmed the meadow at the forest’s edge, and knee-high grass skirted the barn and cabin, a silent invitation to snakes and other unwelcome guests. She shuddered.

  Across the yard the barn door hung askew on a crooked hinge, loosened by winter storms. William’s tools were in the tack room if no one had wandered through and taken them. She could fix the door. And chop the grass. And gather the cows. Her shoulders dipped. Oh Lord, how would she do it all? A light breeze fluttered around the wagon and ruffled the grass as she reined in near the cabin. Cecilia climbed over the bench seat, scrubbing her sleepy eyes. “We’re home, Mama.”

  Home. Lucy kissed the top of her daughter’s mussed hair then stilled at a dull thump coming from behind the cabin. Cecilia’s eyes widened.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  “Shush.” Lucy hurried her daughter back over the seat. “Cover your head and Elmore’s, and don’t make a sound,” she whispered.

  “But, Mama—”

  “Hush. Do as I say.”

  Thump. . .thump.

  With tingling arms she reached beneath the seat for the shotgun and climbed down. Gripping the gun in both hands, she cocked the hammer, pointed it ahead of her, and crept toward the building. She could shoot a bear if she had to, or a deer, but would a shotgun bring them down? That had to be what was making the noise—just an animal poking around. Her hands grew slick, and she wiped one on her skirt and then the other. No honey trees grew nearby, and it wasn’t the time of year for bucks to be raking their antlers. She pushed her bonnet off, back pressed against the wall, and edged toward the corner. Sucking in a deep breath, she raised the gun to her shoulder. Lucy stepped into the open and drew a bead on. . .Buck Reiter.

  The bearded bear of a man stood in his wagon and stared at her, firewood in each hand. “You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?” He tossed the pieces on a pile between himself and the cabin, a dare burning in his eyes.

  Lucy lowered the gun, fit to fly into him for ignoring her refusal and scaring her half to death. But he wasn’t a real bear, or an outlaw, and for that she was grudgingly grateful. He bent for another log and tossed it on the pile. Thump.

  “Mama, don’t shoot!”

  Lucy’s trigger finger flinched at the high-pitched squeal, and she quickly aimed skyward. Whirling on her daughter, she bit back a fiery retort at the sight of the child’s frightened expression. Elmore stood behind his sister, chewing on a suspender, his dark eyes shifting between Lucy and the man in the wagon.

  Lucy let go her breath and dropped her arms. The gun’s muzzle hit the ground and the world exploded.

  Dirt flew up around them, and the children’s screams tore the air as they rushed her. Clutching them close, Lucy fell to her knees. The wagon creaked, and pounding boots brought Buck Reiter to her side with a hand on her shoulder, warm and strong. She nearly melted beneath his touch.

  Buck scanned the huddled bodies, looking for blood. “Are you all right?”

  Two heads with dark saucer eyes answered with sober nods. Gently squeezing their mother�
��s shoulder, he stuffed down the fear that had jerked him from the wagon. “And you, Mrs. Powell? Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head and drew herself up. “I’m all right. J–just shaken.”

  He straightened and pulled his hat off to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead. Lord, have mercy, he thought she’d shot ’em all. The boy craned his neck back and squinted up at him, the first to recover. “Where’d you find all that wood, mister?”

  Buck blew out a heavy breath and set his hat on. “Can you stack stove wood for your ma?” He pointed at the wall by the back porch. “Like I started there?”

  The youngster shed his mother’s clutches and ran for the woodpile. “Sure can.”

  Mrs. Powell made to stand, and Buck helped with a hand to her elbow. Her face was white as a headstone, and her arm quivered beneath his fingers.

  “Cecilia and I will unload our wagon.” Sounding tougher than she looked, she brushed Buck with a wary glance and pulled her daughter closer.

  He took a step back. “I can help if you need—”

  “No.” Sharp. Certain. “You’ve done more than enough already.” Tugging at her bonnet ribbons, she pulled them from her neck.

  He’d helped all right. Nearly got himself and the children shot. He picked up the gun, cracked it open, and kicked out the empty casing. “You have more shells?”

  She stared at the weapon. “Yes. . . Yes, I have.” Fumbling in her skirt, she withdrew another shell and handed it to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to see you here and I heard the noise and I didn’t know what to make of it and I. . .”

  “No harm, ma’am.” Her eyes simmered like black coffee. Strong and brave, in spite of the fright that shook her hands. He reloaded. “I’ll set this inside the front door where it’ll be handy in case you need it.”