The 12 Brides Of Summer (Novella Collection Book 4)

by Vickie McDonough

  With a tight arm around her daughter’s shoulder, she turned and walked around the end of the cabin as if she hadn’t heard him.

  Not exactly the way he’d hoped things would go.

  CHAPTER 4

  Still trembling, Lucy pulled the dutch oven from beneath the wagon seat and found the lid secure. How dare that man go against her expressed wishes that he not bring them firewood. He nearly got himself and her precious children buckshot. Shaking off the fear and anger, she wadded her skirt in her hands and grabbed the pot. “Open the door for me, and I’ll set this on the table.”

  Cecilia pulled the latch, and the door squeaked open.

  “Move over, honey. This is heavy.” Lucy squeezed by and into the musty cabin, raising dust swirls with her boots. “Open the windows, and let’s get some air in here, shall we?”

  Setting the heavy cast iron on the table, she glanced back at her daughter who stood like a stone in the doorway. “Cecilia?”

  The child blinked then ran to hide in Lucy’s skirts. Lucy pulled her to the rocker and onto her lap, holding her as tightly as she held her own breath.

  “I miss Papa.” The thin voice pierced Lucy’s heart, and she dipped her head against Cecilia’s.

  “I do, too.” Closing her eyes, she searched for a comforting word to ease her daughter’s sorrow and calm her own frayed nerves. Wood thumped against the cabin. “We are going to be just fine, sweetie. Help me get the things from the wagon. You can hang the quilts over the porch railing while I bring in our supplies.”

  Cecilia slid off her lap with a sniffle. “I want to be like you, Mama.”

  Lucy’s throat tightened. “How?”

  “I want to not cry.”

  “Oh, baby, I cry.” She framed her daughter’s face between her hands and thumbed the tear trails. “Crying is part of healing. It waters the dry places in our soul.” She kissed the pert little nose. “Don’t you be ashamed of your tears. Even Jesus cried.”

  “He did?”

  Lucy nodded. “He knows what it feels like to miss someone we love.”

  Cecilia swiped at her cheeks and returned to the wagon, and Lucy tucked her words into her own heart. The Lord knew.

  Soon they had the cabin dusted and swept, the rope bed in the corner made up, and their extra things stored in the loft. Lucy sent Cecilia to the creek with a tin pitcher as Elmore scuttled inside with an armload of sticks. Mr. Reiter waited in the back doorway, hat in hand.

  “Stack it neat. Don’t want your ma tripping over anything while she’s cooking.”

  Elmore piled the odd pieces and clapped dust from his hands.

  “Good job, Button.” The man’s whiskers twitched.

  Elmore frowned. “I ain’t no button.”

  Her son’s pout drew a chuckle from Mr. Reiter. Lucy went to the stove. “Elmore, you should say, ‘I am not a button.’ ”

  “I did.” He locked his arms across his chest and scowled.

  “That’s what my pa called me when I was your age,” Mr. Reiter said. “Button.”

  Elmore considered it then nodded once and turned to her. “Can we eat now?”

  Oh, that all life’s issues were solved so simply. She lifted the lid on the beans and stirred the contents, certain that Elmore’s we included the stubborn man. Uninvited, but not unappreciated, he could eat in exchange for his labor. “The two of you need to wash up first, but I haven’t primed the pump.” She took a bucket from the corner and handed it to her son. “Rinse this out at the creek, then Mr. Reiter can help you fill it and bring it back. Cecilia’s there now with a pitcher.”

  She looked the man’s way and caught his smile as Elmore ran out the door. At least she thought he smiled. It was hard to tell with that buffalo robe he wore on his face.

  She busied herself at the stove, feeding in the smallest pieces of wood and reaching to a high shelf where she felt for the matches. She hadn’t thought about matches. What if there were none?

  A footfall behind her, and Mr. Reiter’s long arm produced the match box. This time she saw a smile for certain, with him standing so close she could smell the sunshine and sweat from his shirt. “Thank you.” More words came before he stepped outside. “You are welcome to eat with us.”

  He paused with a hand on the door frame and looked over his shoulder. “Thank you kindly.”

  Relief trilled through her at his acceptance, surprising her as it doused her earlier resentment. Uninvited or not, Mr. Reiter’s presence delayed the inevitable. Her fatherless family would soon be alone, far from town tonight and for many more nights to come.

  Baked beans and biscuits greeted Buck on his return with the children. Cecilia managed to get a half-filled pitcher back and a pocketful of wild strawberries. Elmore’s mouth was red with what she couldn’t reach first, and Buck helped the boy haul the bucket inside and set it in the sink.

  Four plates topped the plank table, with spoons and cups at each. A bowl of canned peaches sat in the center with a plate of golden biscuits and a pot of beans. Feeling as handy as a leash on a polecat, Buck held his hat against his stomach and waited by the hearth on the opposite side of the room.

  Mrs. Powell poured creek water in the tin cups then took her seat. The children settled in with ease, leaving empty the chair at the end. Three pairs of eyes looked his way.

  “Ma makes the best beans. Don’t you want none?”

  “Don’t you want any, Elmore.”

  “Yes, Ma, I sure do.”

  Cecilia giggled, and her ma appeared to choke back a laugh. Welcoming the lighter mood, Buck took the remaining chair. Cecilia slipped from her seat, delicately lifted his hat, and hung it on a row of hooks by the front door. “Pa always hung his hat there,” she said on her return. “I s’pose you can do the same.”

  Grateful for the beard that hid his discomfort, Buck cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

  The children bowed their heads, and he did the same.

  “For this food we give Thee thanks. Amen.” Three voices recited the brief prayer, one with a tight edge. Buck raised his head and kept his eyes on the peaches, away from the determined woman to his left.

  After dinner Lucy and the children cleared the table. Buck primed the pump with a ladleful of water from the bucket, and soon well water pulled up clear and sweet.

  “Thank you, Mr. Reiter.” Lucy stood by the table, her hands resting on a chair back. The set of her jaw and shoulders had eased a bit, and she looked downright weary.

  “My pleasure, ma’am, but I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  Her schoolmarm brows snapped together then smoothed as she caught herself. “You may.”

  He took his hat from the peg. “Please, call me Buck, ma’am. Mr. Reiter was my pa, and I feel old when you and the children call me that.”

  Elmore stepped close and cocked his head back for a better look. “But you got an old beard.”

  “Elmore!” Lucy’s face flushed, and she drew the boy to her. “That is not polite.”

  Buck grinned and stroked the bushy mass. “ ‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ they say.” Babes and his sister. He chucked the boy’s chin and headed outside to finish stacking wood.

  Pausing on the porch, he drank in the forested sweep that rose above them to the west. Sweet pinion and juniper perfumed the air, and he pulled in a deep draught. Behind him water gushed into the sink, Cecilia giggled, and chairs scraped their way under the table. Sounds of home. A home that wasn’t his. An empty spot in his chest tore a little wider, and he rubbed the ache. Time to be heading out.

  Elmore bounded through the door and bowled into him. “Come on, Mr. Buck. I wanna show you the barn.” Small fingers clasped his hand and pulled him toward the neglected structure. He hefted the boy up and onto his shoulders.

  Inside, a flattened pile of musty hay littered one dark corner. Stall doors gaped, and dried-out tack hung from one wall. A small room held a workbench and tools that waited for their owner to put them to task. “Duck your head,” he said as he tuc
ked down to step through the door.

  “Them’s Pa’s tools.” Two chubby arms clamped around Buck’s neck as he smoothed the long handle of a hammer. “Ma says he’s gone and not coming back. Said he died in the woods.”

  Buck lifted the boy off his shoulders and set him on the ground then squatted before him, eye to eye in the slatted light. “It’s hard not getting to see the people you love.” He straightened a sagging suspender over one small shoulder. “I know someone else who lost his pa, too, but he grew up to be a fine, strong man. So will you.”

  Elmore stared at the dirt floor and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Buck stood and reached for the hammer. “If you remember where your pa kept the nails, we can fix the big door.”

  Elmore cocked his head and looked up at him. “Pa was good at fixin’ things, too.” Then he stepped up on an overturned box and reached for a tin at the back of the workbench. “He used these long ones for the doors.”

  Buck gathered a handful and dropped them in his vest pocket. “Bring that box you’re standing on and you can help drive the nails.”

  Shadows licked across the yard as Buck and Elmore patched the barn, and cooler air pulled through the open doors on each end. Soon the evening breeze signaled a ride over the near ridge and back to Horne Ranch. As Buck returned the tools and took a final look around, a slender silhouette marked the entry.

  “Would you like to stay to supper?”

  Weariness rippled through her voice like a dying stream, and one hand rubbed her shoulder at the base of her neck. He’d like to stay forever.

  “I expect they’ll be watching for me at the ranch.” He’d not take more of her food. “But thank you just the same.”

  She closed the door after him, and with Elmore in hand, followed as Buck climbed in the wagon and gathered the reins. The boy broke away and ran to the wheel.

  “You comin’ back tomorrow?”

  Buck’s insides knotted, and he glanced at the young widow. Her jaw held firm as did her stance, but no resistance filled her eyes.

  “If it’s all right with your ma.”

  Elmore whirled around. “It’s all right with you, ain’t it, Ma?”

  A near smile broke, and she nodded. Cecilia joined her and stood close, their skirts touching.

  Buck slapped Rose ahead and tugged his hat brim. Lucy Powell stood with a hand pressing each child against her, watching him as if he’d tied up the daylight itself and was dragging it out of her world.

  CHAPTER 5

  Lucy lay awake between her children, their shallow breath rising together as one. She rubbed calloused hands over her face, her muscles aching from the unaccustomed work. But these moments of predawn peace were priceless, for in them she heard the Lord’s soft whisper again: “Trust me.”

  The storms made it difficult.

  Every afternoon for a week they had rolled in over the mountains, each thunder clap and lightning strike reminding her of what she’d lost and how. She could bear the hard work, her dried and cracked hands, even the pain in her neck. But the storms mocked her, delivering again the blow of losing William.

  Slipping from the bed, she checked each angelic face before padding to the stove and stoking the fire for coffee. Water flowed freely into the pot, and Buck came to mind, his bulk filling the kitchen corner as he primed the pump. As he sat at the table’s head. As he chucked Elmore under the chin and tugged Cecilia’s braids. If a body were to judge by outward appearances, one would think Buck Reiter liked being around her family. If a body were to judge by hidden feelings, one would think Lucy liked having him around. Somehow his presence lessened the drudgery.

  Thin light seeped above the eastern ridge, and she quickly dressed and pulled on her boots. As she tied off the end of her braid, a wagon rolled into the yard and stopped at the barn. Elmore would be thrilled.

  After returning the second and third day as Elmore had requested, Buck had since been gone for four. Each morning the child hung from the porch railing, dangling his feet off the edge, waiting for the familiar wagon to drive up the road. And each morning it did not come he’d gone about his chores like a lost pup. Yes, Elmore would be happy. So would Cecilia.

  Lucy’s insides fluttered as she ground the coffee and added it to the pot. Glancing at her sleeping children, she slipped out the back door, surprised that she hadn’t yet adjusted to the altitude. She couldn’t quite get her wind.

  The horse stood tied to the hitching rail at the barn, and Buck pulled long planks from the wagon and stacked them against the outer wall. Even in the new light, Lucy could make out posts and crates and covered baskets in the bed. Grumbling hens clucked their displeasure at being caged, and she bristled. Charity.

  She marched to the wagon, ready to tell him to take everything back. But he turned at her approach and his eyes brightened like the dawning sky. Pride melted into a pool of warm butter.

  “Mornin’.” His beard puffed out on each side in what she’d learned was a smile.

  “Good morning.” She gripped the edges of her apron. “This really is too much.” His eyes disarmed her, bore right through her, until a scratching whimper drew her aside. From a crate at the end of the wagon, a pink tongue licked between the slats. Buck lowered the board and pulled the crate to the edge. “I figured your young’uns needed a young’un of their own.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Hope you don’t mind. We don’t need two dogs at our place.”

  Mind? How could she mind? In fact, where was her mind? Holding her fingers against the slats, she sniffed a laugh at the quick washing. “Seems a happy fellow.” Next to her, Buck released a tight breath. Did he really seek her approval?

  He opened the crate and a black-and-white puppy wriggled over the top and into Lucy’s arms before she could refuse it. Climbing her body, it stretched to lick her chin and draw her laughter. “What a rascal you are!”

  Buck retrieved the squirming bundle and set it on the ground. “That’s as good a name as any. Rascal.” He skewered the pup with a blue glare. “You mind your manners.”

  The puppy skittered around the wagon, sniffing and pawing. What a delight for the children! Lucy brushed her bodice and apron and caught Buck appraising her reaction. Preparing to voice her concerns, she straightened her shoulders.

  “I can never repay you for your kindness—for all you’ve done for us.”

  “I’m not lookin’ for repayment, ma’am. Just lookin’ to help a neighbor.”

  Dare she believe him? “Why?” The hard word felt heavy on her tongue, but she needed to know before he did more. Before she imagined the wrong motivation. Few men did anything without thought of recompense.

  He pulled his hat off and ran a hand over his wheat-colored hair. “Good Book says to help widows and orphans”—he looked her straight in the eye—“and the way I see it, you qualify.”

  His words pressed a bitter barb in her wounded heart. What had she expected? Affection? Enjoyment of her company? She drew a deep breath and raised her chin. At least he wouldn’t be forcing himself on her. She made to turn away, and he stopped her with a light touch on her arm.

  “I like helping you, ma’am. You and those babies of yours. I enjoy doing what I can for you. But if I make you uncomfortable, just tell me and I’ll move on.”

  His eyes clouded, and a crease formed between his brows. At such a contrast from his greeting, she felt near guilty for stealing what joy she’d seen earlier. A sudden decision fell from her lips before she could reconsider. “Call me Lucy. ‘Ma’am’ is so formal.”

  His whiskers bulged, and his brow smoothed. “Lucy, then.” He shoved his hat on and looked at the pup scratching around his feet. “Rascal here shouldn’t be too much extra work for you. He’ll do on table scraps and help keep the critters from your cabin.”

  The man thought of everything, like a good friend. Her shoulders relaxed. “Let me help you.” He could handle three times or more the weight she could carry, but still she reached for a pole. Together they dragged it o
ut and started a second pile next to the barn. “What are your plans for all of this?”

  “The chicken coop needs repair—looks likes coyotes dug in.” He turned to face the garden she’d worked to resurrect. “Deer fence needs work.” He grazed her with a quick glance. “I brought a bag of seed spuds.” He paused and looked away. “And I see you’ve got some pie plants coming on—”

  His gaze jerked to the wagon. “I almost forgot.” Two long strides took him to the front where he lifted a handled basket and presented it like a gift. “Lemons. Lilly said she had plenty.”

  Lucy took the basket and peeked beneath the checkered cloth, stalling to stuff her emotions back in place. Lemonade. How appropriate. Her mouth watered with the bitterness of endless work and the sweetness of this man’s kindness. Pulling a rare smile from her heart, she looked into his sky-filled eyes.

  “Do you like hotcakes?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Hotcakes. Cold cakes. Any kind of cake Lucy Powell offered, he’d take. Just thinking her name left Buck feeling as spur-tangled as his nephew last fall after bringing Ara home in a snowstorm. Buck just never thought the same thing would happen to an old bronc like him.

  He pulled his fingers through his beard. Wasn’t white, but it looked old, according to Button. It hadn’t mattered till Buck ran into the boy’s mother at the mercantile. She had to be ten years younger than him, but if she worked this place by herself, she wouldn’t look it for long. Wasn’t right for a woman to use herself up on hard work—man’s work. And if he had any say in it, she wouldn’t.

  Elmore nearly bowled him over in the yard, and Buck snagged him and dangled him upside down. Didn’t know a boy could laugh so hard or hug so tight. And when he and his sister saw Rascal, Buck thought they’d squeal themselves silly. Made his throat tight, and he walked into the barn for a spell to check the hinges on the stall doors.

  Not long after, a sweet ribbon of fried bacon drew him to the cabin, and it was hard to say which was better—the hot coffee Lucy poured or the warm smile that accompanied it. Her braid hung over her shoulder, and he wanted to run it through his fingers like a horse’s mane. She might not think kindly of the comparison, but that was the closest he’d come to long fine hair such as hers.