The 12 Brides Of Summer (Novella Collection Book 4)

by Vickie McDonough

  By midmorning he and Elmore had the chicken yard repaired, and he carried a slatted crate inside the small henhouse. “She’s setting,” he told the boy, “so you best not be reaching under her for eggs.”

  Elmore peered beneath the nest. “When will they hatch?”

  Buck eased the crate into a corner. “Maybe not at all if she leaves off setting after being moved like this. But you keep an eye on her, and let me know how things go.”

  He brought the other cage from the wagon, set it on the ground, and released a trio of pullets and a young rooster. “If she doesn’t hatch that clutch, she’ll get another chance with this fella here.”

  Elmore eyed the small comb and red wattle. “Ma says roosters don’t lay eggs.”

  Buck backed away from that prickly pear and hurried to the wagon with the empty cage. He’d not be getting into such things with Elmore. His ma was a teacher. She could educate him on the ways of hens and roosters.

  Flushed at his close escape and talk of nature’s ways, he reset his hat and pulled on his thick work gloves. Elmore joined him as he grabbed a roll of barbed wire. “Can you step off your ma’s garden and show me the boundaries?”

  The boy’s whole face grinned, and he picked up the napping puppy and ran off around the cabin.

  Lucy brought a water crock and ladle to the back porch, tied on her bonnet, and with Cecilia set to work weeding the garden. Later, when she straightened to rub her neck and shoulder, Buck’s pulse hitched at the sight, and he made for the porch and the dipper. A new thirst was burning its way through his chest, but it had nothing to do with water and everything to do with brave, beautiful Lucy Powell. His plans to leave began to lose their luster, and he could hardly imagine the rumble of horses’ hooves across distant pastures any longer.

  After dinner, Elmore held posts while Buck tamped them in, and by supper time they had the garden fenced and a few hills of potatoes. While Lucy watched from the porch, he showed Cecilia and Elmore how to plant them. “Might take three weeks for the fuzzy leaves to appear, but don’t be digging them up to peek.”

  Cecilia giggled, and Elmore threw her an irritated look. Reminded Buck of him and Lilly when they were sprouts. He stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. The children ran off to play with Rascal, and Buck dropped a wire loop from the gate around the end post. More-determined critters would make it through, but at least the deer wouldn’t ravage all their work.

  Lucy waited on the porch, and he could feel her eyes runnin’ over him like cool water on a hot day. Lord, help him. What had he expected when he set out to help a widow and her young’uns? It for sure wasn’t what churned through him every time he thought of her.

  “Stay for supper?”

  Her quiet invitation nearly pulled his heart up through his gullet, and he approached slowly, deliberately, until he met her eye to eye where she stood on the porch. He longed to touch her, but instead drank in every feature of her face, hoping to slake his thirst.

  “I best be getting back before dark to help Nate with chores.” Nate didn’t need help, but Buck needed to leave. Needed to keep things right between him and Lucy Powell, even if it drove him loco. She tipped her head and smiled that sweet-water way she had that closed up his throat and made him sweat. It’d be so easy to lean in and taste her lips.

  “Thank you for all your help.” She touched his arm. “Be careful going home.”

  Home. He could find it right here if she’d have him. He swallowed hard. “Just got one ridge to cross.” And one porch rail and one decade. He swallowed again. “Tell Button and Sissy to make sure Rascal has plenty of water.” Like she wouldn’t know that herself. But what else was he going to say—I love you, Lucy Powell?

  He stepped back with a brief nod and worked at not running for the wagon. But he rode hard through all the advice he’d given Nate last fall. “Tell Ara how you feel,” he’d said, all bold and brassy when it wasn’t his own heart at the snubbin’ post.

  By the time Buck pulled onto the Horne Ranch road, coyote chatter had chased daylight over the hills. His sweaty shirt had cooled, and he pulled at his beard and scratched his cheek. Nate was waiting for him in the front porch rocker, feet up on the rail and wearing a grin to rival Elmore’s.

  Buck knew what was coming. He just didn’t know what to say to it.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lucy scorched the coffee, burned the hotcakes, and nearly wore a hole in her apron rubbing her hands on it. Her heart beat like a running rabbit when she closed her eyes and saw him again—standing so close she could smell his scent and the toil he’d spent on her and the children. She longed to hold her hand against his face, beard and all, and kiss his sweaty brow. Oh Lord, how could she have such feelings?

  “Mama, are you all right?”

  Lucy’s eyes flew open with a guilty start. She owed her children more than to swoon at the table over a man she had no business even thinking about. “Yes, Sissy, just resting my eyes.” Her mother’s weary words so often repeated spilled from her lips without thought. Resting her heart was more like it. Resting it in daydreams of a kind man’s tenderness and help. She picked up her coffee, tepid and bitter. Oh, Buck. Why did you leave us alone?

  She yanked back the unspoken words. No—not Buck, William. Her hand trembled as she set down her cup.

  Cecilia poked her blackened cakes, and Elmore picked up his and tore off a chunk. Neither complained, but Lucy knew what dampened their childish hearts. Buck had not been back for a week. She pushed her plate aside and added another spoon of sugar to the thick coffee. At least the chickens would eat the burned cakes. Chickens Buck had brought, thriving in a henhouse Buck had repaired. Everywhere she looked and everything she did brought him to mind. His bushy face had pushed William’s countenance from her memory, and guilt weighed as heavy as her responsibilities. But William wasn’t there to laugh and play with the children and work beside her and hold her in a blue gaze until she thought she would melt with longing.

  Now, neither was Buck.

  She missed him desperately. Not just his helpful labor, but him. The way his eyes twinkled when he teased the children. The way they warmed when he looked at her. The touch of his rough hand on her shoulder and the heat it sent clear through to her bones.

  Rascal rumbled into her thoughts with a fierce puppy growl. The children looked at each other and then at Lucy. She scooted back and went for the shotgun. Cracking the door, she scanned the yard between the cabin and barn then saw the lone rider coming across the pasture. Rascal joined her, ears cocked as he sniffed at the door. His sharp yap made her flinch, and she signaled Cecilia, who scurried to the door and took the pup to the loft.

  “Lord, protect us,” she whispered as Elmore followed his sister up the ladder.

  The stranger neared the cabin, and Lucy gripped the gun with both hands. Still blistered from the incident on their first day, she held it steady as she eased her foot in front of the door, aiming just shy of the rider. He didn’t slow his pace but steadily walked his horse until it reached the hitching rail and stopped as if it belonged there.

  The broad shoulders. The hat shading his eyes.

  “It’s Mr. Buck! It’s Mr. Buck!”

  Lucy jerked at the sharp squeal from above but managed to lower the muzzle without blowing a hole in the man. Twice she’d had him at the wrong end of a shotgun. The children clambered down the ladder and stormed past her, jumping up and down on the wood-plank porch.

  “You’re back. You’re back,” Elmore chanted. “I knew you’d come back.”

  A grin split the man’s face in two, and his blue eyes locked on to Lucy, drawing the very breath from her lungs.

  “You cut off your beard,” Cecilia said. “Can I feel?”

  “Sissy!” Mortified, Lucy stepped outside.

  Buck swung from the saddle and took a knee on the bottom step. “You sure can.”

  The children launched into his arms, and he tossed his head back with a warm laugh. Lucy shivered. Elmore pressed his h
and against the smooth face, and Buck’s eyes closed, his firm mouth lifting in delight.

  Lucy leaned the gun against the house and hid her own hands in her skirts to keep from doing what her heart wanted. If she touched that dear face, she would likely kiss it, and then what would her children think?

  “Do you like it?” Buck’s question refocused her.

  Cecilia tilted her head. “You got younger.”

  Elmore stepped back and thumbed his suspenders like a little man. “It’s fine by me.”

  Buck stood and removed his hat, mauling it in his rough grip. “And you, Lucy?” His deep voice resonated through her. “Is it fine by you?”

  Her thudding heart drew her fingers to her throat. “Yes. . .but I didn’t know you. I mean. . .”

  “I’d hoped you’d like it.” His mouth tipped. “At least enough not to shoot me off my horse.”

  His teasing loosened her nerves and drained away her anxiety. Elmore grasped Buck’s fingers and tugged him down, cupping a hand against his mouth with a loud whisper. “Did you cut off your beard so Ma would kiss ya?”

  Buck choked at Lucy’s horrified look, but he refused to laugh at her expense. For once, she had no teacherly words to come to her aid. He stepped up on the porch and chucked the boy’s chin. Both children giggled, and Lucy flushed. Pretty as a filly in a flower bed, she was, standing there with rosy cheeks and her apron knotted in her hands. She looked everywhere but at him.

  “I, uh. . .would you like some coffee?” she asked his horse.

  “Don’t know about Charlie, but I’d be obliged.”

  Her head jerked around. “Charlie?”

  “My horse.”

  “Ma, you know horses don’t drink coffee.” Elmore grabbed her hand and pulled.

  “Oh, shush, you.” She tousled his hair and pushed him ahead of her into the cabin.

  Sissy lingered. “Whatcha got in your poke?”

  The girl didn’t miss a lick. “Flowers for your ma.” He untied the saddle strings holding the bag.

  “That’s a funny way to carry flowers.”

  Dropping to one knee, he opened the bag and carefully folded the edges down around the rich dark soil and a cluster of blue-and-white flowers. “They’re columbines. Do you think she’ll like them?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Buck. I know she will.”

  “Where should we plant them?”

  Brightening at his we, she smoothed her skirt like her mother. “I know just the place.” She dashed off the end of the porch and around the corner, and he found her by a sheltered spot near the back door.

  “Good choice.”

  “I’ll get the shovel.” She sprinted for the barn.

  When the task was completed, Sissy stood back with her hands on her waist like a little Lucy. Then she rushed through the back door.

  “Mama, come see what Mr. Buck brought you.”

  Through the open doorway, Buck saw Lucy dry her hands on her apron and push at her hair. She followed Sissy outside to the end of the porch, and again a hand fussed at her throat and her cheeks pinked the moment she saw the flowers.

  “They’re lovely, Buck.”

  Hope sparked at the softness of her voice.

  “I helped plant them.” Sissy beamed. Lucy hugged the girl and cut a glance his way that fanned the spark. Spotting that bunch of blue at the edge of the meadow was sure enough worth having to dig it up with his knife.

  “Coffee’s almost ready. And I have biscuits, too, if you’re hungry.”

  Hunger didn’t begin to describe what swirled through his middle. “Thank you kindly.”

  Elmore scooted by with a can of scraps, and Buck stepped inside and took a seat in the rocking chair. The smell of charred coffee gave way to fresh beans that Lucy ground. His hands itched for a willow branch, and he looked around the cabin as if he’d find a peeled piece just waiting to be whittled. A curtain draped back from a bed, and a braided rug covered the floor beside it. Fancy plates leaned against a hutch back, and a large trunk sat beneath the front window with a shelf full of books close by.

  Lucy didn’t chatter as she worked, and he watched her the same way he watched cottontails scatter at sunup or deer drinking at a stream. A small hand touched his arm. Sissy stood close with a yellow-haired doll. “Pa used to set me on his knee and rock my baby to sleep.”

  A tight gasp flitted across the small room, and Lucy turned with startled eyes. Buck lifted the child to his lap. “Like this?” He pushed against the floor and the chair tipped slowly back and forth. She leaned against his chest and stroked her doll’s golden curls, so unlike her own dark braids. Then she sighed and nodded her head in silent assent. He curled his arm around her and his gaze met Lucy’s. Did she resent him? Was he stepping into her husband’s place, disregarding his memory? He held her eyes and saw a yearning there that burned clean through him. He had half a mind to hope it might have something to do with him.

  While Lucy set plates, butter, and biscuits on the table and poured the coffee, Cecilia fell into a deep sleep. Lucy came softly, bending down, her eyes grazing his lips as she slipped her arms beneath the child. Then she regarded him steadily and mouthed the words, Thank you.

  Fighting for a solid breath, Buck made his way to the table and took a seat. Elmore climbed into the closest chair, and Rascal curled in a ball beneath him.

  “Rascal let us know you was here.”

  “Were here,” Lucy whispered as she passed behind her son and on to her chair. This time she held her hands out, one across the table for Elmore and one for Buck. Accustomed to the practice at his sister’s table, he grasped Button’s tiny hand in his, and with the other, Lucy’s slender fingers. Her touch sent his thoughts as far from table grace as snow is from summer.

  “For this food we give Thee thanks,” she said quietly. “And thank You for bringing Buck safely to us this morning. Amen.”

  He waited, head bowed, not willing to let go. Lucy withdrew her hand and reached for the platter. She dropped a golden round onto her son’s plate and turned to Buck. “Two or three?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Lucy’s fluttering emotions spread to her serving hand, and she prayed Buck didn’t notice. What would she tell him? That the columbines matched his eyes? That he made her achingly mindful of a strong and thoughtful man in her home again? Heat crept up her neck, and she left the table on pretense of warming the already hot coffee.

  Upon her return, she found Buck had eaten the three biscuits she’d given him and was reaching for another.

  “Lilly invited you and the children to the ranch next Saturday. With Ara in the family way, we’re not driving into town for the Fourth of July festivities, so Lilly’s making pies and chocolate cake for our own celebration.”

  “Whatcha mean ‘family way’?” Elmore asked.

  Buck choked on his biscuit.

  “Elmore.” Lucy stifled her laughter at Buck’s discomfort. “Shush, and eat your breakfast.”

  “But Ma—”

  “Now.” She eyed her son into submission, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and turned to Buck. “What can I bring?”

  A bit ruddier without his beard, he busied himself with his coffee then cleared his throat. “Yourself and the children.”

  Pinning him with a long look, she folded her arms. Truth was, she appreciated the opportunity to stare. “We will not go unless we can contribute to the celebration.” Perplexity made him even more attractive. He didn’t take his eyes from hers, but they searched deep, as if trying to find a breach in a rocked-up canyon. Finally, he huffed in resignation.

  “Baked beans.”

  The duel ended when she laughed, and his handsome face pulled a worried frown. “Something wrong with baked beans?”

  She laughed again and reached for his hand resting on the table, as if such a move were as natural as taking a breath. “Baked beans it is.”

  He caught her fingers, and his warmth and strength seeped into all her cold and empty places. “I’ll come for you early, and
you can spend the day.”

  Scrabbling for self-sufficiency, she withdrew her hand. “We have a wagon, you know. Just tell us how to find your place.”

  His mouth opened then clamped shut, and his jaw tightened. Lucy balled her apron in her lap but held her head steady. Buck glanced at Elmore, the biscuits, and then settled his blue gaze on her with another huff. “Take your road to the ridge, then turn north and follow the trail about three miles. I’ll wait for you at the top.”

  A compromise, but it suited her. She exhaled and smiled. “We’ll leave at sunup.”

  By early afternoon, Lucy had sent the children to the creek to hunt strawberries. She still had the lemons, and wild-berry lemonade would be perfect for the Fourth of July if the berries lasted another week. Buck worked on the steps leading into the root cellar, and Lucy joined him with a bucket of water, lye soap, and a rag to give the shelves a good cleaning. A distant rumble froze her feet. She turned to scan the range sweeping north of the wide valley, where steel-gray clouds bellied over the ridge. A sudden wind whipped across the meadow and tugged at her hair and skirts. Buck set his hat and cut her a look. She dropped the bucket and ran for the creek.

  Buck closed the cellar door and took Lucy’s bucket and soap to the back porch. He then secured the barn and henhouse. Her sudden dash hinted at more than caution, and he ached to see a common squall upset her so. But it hadn’t quite been a year, according to Lilly, since lightning had taken her husband.

  By the time he returned from the barn, the children were on the porch and Lucy had planted herself in the middle of the garden. Her hands balled into fists, and she lifted her head to the storm as if she could hold it off by sheer will—one woman against all of nature’s thunderous power. If he’d learned anything about Lucy Powell in four short weeks, that was exactly her intention.