The poor young blond thing paled, then raised her hands and buried her head in them in a stunningly theatrical manner. “Oh, Mama—did you hear? Parker!”
Cora, the blonde’s mother, didn’t seem so much surprised by her daughter’s untoward display as by Isabel’s knowledge of the men in question. “For a stranger here yourself, you sound as if you know the McMillan brothers quite well.”
Isabel laughed. “Well, naturally! They’re my sons.”
And then she turned and left the women standing in stunned silence as the merry jingle bell over the door jangled her departure.
Chapter Three
“So, Mrs. Fitzsimmons,” Ike asked, “how handy are you with a butter churn?”
Roy’s fork clattered noisily to his plate. He picked it up with an embarrassed shrug as the others seated around the supper table stared at him, then he threw an annoyed glance at Ike. It was bad enough that a woman of Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s social echelon had to endure Ike’s leathery pot roast and boiled-beyond-recognition vegetables for dinner, not to mention the usual paean to his mama’s butter, did she also have to be interviewed as if she were a potential housekeeper?
“I’m ashamed to say that I’ve never made butter,” Eleanor admitted. Her sweet, cultured voice made the very words seem laughable. “I’m afraid I’m rather useless in the kitchen.”
Roy bristled at her apologetic tone. This was no way to treat a guest, especially one who was probably used to talking about books, art and whatever else rich people talked about. He glared at Ike. “Of course she’s useless—she’s a lady.”
Parker guffawed, and Eleanor raised her napkin to her lips to hide a grin. Roy’s face heated. “What I meant was, I’m sure New York ladies have better things to do with their time than stoop over butter churns all day.” Though just exactly what those better things would be, he had no clue.
“Well…I do know quite a bit about running a household,” Eleanor said. “But the particulars of how each little thing is done often elude me.”
“There,” Roy said, a little triumphantly. “She’s used to having servants around her.”
Eleanor flushed modestly as her cheeks dimpled in a smile. “Indeed I am.”
“My mama had a hired girl to do the washing once,” Ike said, returning to his favorite subject—a field already overcultivated, in Roy’s opinion. “But the gal burnt a petticoat and that was the end of that. Mama was very particular. Only she and my sisters did things just the way she wanted.”
“Sometimes it’s best to do things oneself,” Eleanor agreed politely, the very soul of graciousness. “Your mother sounds like a very intelligent, capable woman.”
Ike beamed across the table at her. “I’ll say.”
Roy pursed his lips with impatience for the meal to be at an end and to be away from Ike’s ceaseless jabbering, which was getting on his nerves more than usual this evening. And why wasn’t Parker, who knew all about the highfalutin’ things Eleanor might find interesting, adding anything to the conversation? He and Eleanor had been walking outside all afternoon, chattering like magpies, but now that there were other people around, Parker was as tight-lipped as a clam. Anyone looking at them would think Roy was the only one at the table with any breeding.
Besides Mrs. Fitzsimmons, that is. She had quality stamped all over her.
“What is it you do exactly, Mrs. Fitzsimmons?” Roy asked, trying to show the others how to engage a lady in polite conversation.
Her head tilted toward him, but she didn’t quite look him in the eye. “Oh, I have…little pursuits.”
“That sounds far too modest.”
She smiled guardedly. “I’m afraid I’m only a woman of modest accomplishments.” Quickly, she turned back to Ike. “Did you have many sisters, Mr. Gray?”
“Just two, ma’am. Both of them are married now.”
“How nice,” Eleanor trilled.
“My mama’s departed this earth, I’m sad to say.”
“But she lives on in your memory, obviously. And in the memory of her wonderful butter.”
Roy squirmed indignantly. She sounded as if she wanted to talk about Ike’s mother! Even though Roy had attempted to rescue her from that tiresome subject, she’d barely spared him a glance, or a smile. His resentful gaze lit on Ike, who was yawping and grinning as he lapped up the lady’s attention.
He frowned, considering. Maybe it was just that Ike was something unique to her—a rustic, she might call him. Or maybe she was just going out of her way not to appear snobbish. He admired her for that.
“What a wonderful dinner, Mr. Gray,” she said, placing her folded napkin next to her plate. Roy hurriedly did the same.
Roy jumped in. “I built up a real cozy fire in the other room for you, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. I’m sure you’d enjoy sitting there and relaxing after your dinner.”
She looked at him oddly. “Shouldn’t we clean up the dishes?”
Roy quickly put her straight on that score. “No, ma’am. We always take care of that ourselves.” Besides, he doubted a woman like herself knew a sink from a pie safe.
“Oh, but surely I could do something.”
He shook his head firmly. “You’re our guest.”
“But—”
“Being bachelors, we’re used to the work,” he assured her.
Ike jumped in. “We always draw after dinner to decide who does the chore, see.”
Parker produced the old worn deck and shuffled the cards, then shoved them toward Ike. Ike picked a card—the three of spades—then tossed in down on the table. “Dadburnit!”
Roy suppressed a grin, envisioning a pleasant evening ahead. True, he’d never cared so much for the company of women, but Eleanor was a sensible female, and very easy on the eye. And while at least one of the others was otherwise occupied, maybe he could get a word in edgewise with her.
Parker drew the five of clubs, lightening Roy’s heart even more.
Roy reached over to the deck—and drew the two of diamonds.
At first he couldn’t believe it. He was the low card? Tonight of all nights?
“That’s hard cheese, Roy-boy,” Ike taunted. “Think this might be the start of that bad streak you kept tellin’ me you were supposed to have?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Roy bit out.
“You want help?” Ike asked.
“No.”
Parker turned to Eleanor, sending her a pleasant smile and ignoring Roy altogether. “Shall we go sit by Roy’s fire? I believe we’ve got a nice bottle of brandy if you’d care to have any.”
She clapped her hands in delight and stood. “That sounds marvelous.”
The three of them practically skipped out of the kitchen in one happy cluster.
Roy stewed. Parker and Ike, sitting by his fire, drinking his brandy…
He almost added, with his woman.
Good lord! He needed to get a grip on himself. Obviously, his hospitable urges were getting the best of him. What did he care about Eleanor Fitzsimmons and a stupid fire? They lit a fire every night. And he’d probably have ample opportunity to sit around with the woman, since she hadn’t so much as whispered a word about her departure date.
He harrumphed indignantly, stood and started clearing plates. Perhaps making a bit more clattering than was necessary, he threw himself into the chore, trying to lose himself in the tedious tasks of pumping water, heating it, then soaping down the dishes. There certainly were a lot of them—he would get stuck doing them when they had a guest!
Thinking of Eleanor this way—as an imposition—put him back in his normal frame of mind, and made him feel better. It also kept his mind from remembering eyes so green they took his breath away, hair like a fiery sunset, and a sweet voice that broke into laughter at the drop of a hat.
“I suspect you’ll be comfortable out here,” Ike told Roy. “And to tell you the truth, I’ll enjoy the company. Gets kinda lonely out here at times.”
The two men stood in the freezing cold little bu
nk-room in the barn, which was cramped for one person and a downright squeeze for two. There was barely room enough for the two bunks, Ike’s things, and the little washbasin stand in the corner. “It will be cozy,” Roy said without enthusiasm, shivering as he tested the hard straw mattress on the bunk. He looked over at Ike, who was already stripped down to his union suit and settling into his bunk with no fuss at all, and felt a new respect for the man. Roy didn’t want to take his coat off, never mind his shirt.
Why didn’t Ike keep a stove out here?
“What’s the matter, Roy? Got the can’t-sleeps?”
Roy gathered his courage, braced himself for misery, and stripped off his shirt. The shock was like taking a dive into the Platte in January. He sucked in his breath and jumped into bed, feeling that it would be easier now than ever to see Mrs. Fitzsimmons less as a pretty face than an infernal nuisance. He thought longingly of his own bed, with its soft feather tick mattress and warm woolen blankets. He’d even gotten carried away and wrapped warmed bricks in towels and put them at the foot of her bed, an action that seemed the height of folly now.
In his own room in the house, he had layers of blankets and thick warm sheets. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night so hot he had to kick covers off his bed. His teeth chattered frantically at the memory of such luxury.
“Cold, ain’t it?” Ike asked, chuckling. “These early cold snaps always come as a shock.” But Ike’s teeth weren’t clackety-clacking like a runaway train, and with nothing more than a tattered quilt over him he looked as comfy as an old boot. “My mama always said a cold bedroom made for a strong constitution, though. Guess you’ve noticed I rarely come down sick myself.”
Oh lord, not Ike’s mama again! Not while he was trying to sleep….
Roy suppressed a groan, flopped onto his side, and tried to think about something else besides the cold and how smelly, hard, and lumpy the bed was. The first thing that leapt to mind was Mrs. Fitzsimmons. Eleanor. She was probably cozy and warm in his bed.
In his bed…. He envisioned Eleanor there, probably in some kind of lacy nightgown imported from France, maybe, long hair brushed out and spread across his pillow like a river of mysterious red. Or maybe she braided her hair at night, like his mama used to.
Roy gulped. Heaven help him, one night in the barn and he was turning into Ike!
Not that Eleanor was a bit like what little he knew of his mother. Pampered lady or not, Eleanor seemed like a lady with a little gumption, and spirit. And yet there was a vulnerable quality about her. Something in the way she tilted her head sometimes, as if expecting a reprimand. Maybe that was left over from when she was a girl. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she’d been a kid with a mischievous streak—he could still detect it in the sparkle in those green eyes, or in her easy laugh, or the wry way she would answer one of their many questions. He bet she was a girl who found life full of fun and adventure.
A woman, he corrected silently. She might have eyes that sparkled with youth, but she had a woman’s face and a body that hinted at womanly curves beneath her modest attire. That was another thing he liked about her. She didn’t run around flaunting herself, like, say, that Clara Trilby. Good lord! That girl could take a few lessons in modesty from Eleanor. Maybe it was because she was a widow. Eleanor didn’t strike him as a schemer, like so many women her age. He bet there wasn’t an ounce of guile in her, though a woman that pretty could certainly use her looks to twist men around her little finger. And she wasn’t only beautiful in the conventional way Clara Trilby was, either. Eleanor had spice to her looks.
“What’d you say, Roy?”
Roy bolted up to his elbows and looked over at Ike. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Well never mind. I thought I heard you moaning or something.”
Roy grunted in displeasure. “Who wouldn’t moan when it’s so damn cold in here? How do we know we won’t be solid chunks of ice by morning?”
Ike laughed. “Listen to you—I haven’t heard you complain like this since the price of wheat went down. Why did you volunteer to give the woman your room if you didn’t want to be put out?”
Good question. Roy huddled unhappily on his bunk, trying to rationalize his foolishness. “Because it wouldn’t have been right for me to be sleeping alone in the house with that woman.”
Plus, after meeting her, he’d been eager to be the one to make the sacrifice for her. Showing off, he supposed. That’s what women did to a man—made him make all sorts of silly Sir Galahad gestures for her—and where did a fellow end up for his pains?
Left out in the cold, that’s where.
“How’s it any more proper for her to be alone in the house with Parker?”
Roy stiffened. He’d never thought of that. Not that Parker was a wolf or anything near it, but he’d been writing the woman an awfully long time. All this time, he had probably dreamed of her, longed for the opportunity to meet her, and built up a passion for her. Maybe even an uncontrollable passion!
Ike shook his head. “A man and a woman…a cozy house…a blustery night…” Ike chuckled. “Who knows?”
It was all Roy could do not to go tearing across the path to the kitchen door right that second.
Instead, he counted to five, then shot out of the bed.
Ike sat up, startled. “Where’re you going?”
“To get another blanket!” Roy shrugged on his coat over his underwear, not bothering with his shirt. “I’ll be back.”
He stomped through the barn, hopping over drying piles of corn shucks and trying to get a little circulation back in his feet, then scuttled across the pathway to the house, trepidation mounting as he ran against the icy wind. God only knows what he was going to find going on in there!
Eleanor sank into the soft warm bed and let out a breathy sigh. Luxury at last! After a week of enduring Mary’s cot, then the hard seats of the train, Roy McMillan’s bed was pure bliss. Especially since someone had been so thoughtful as to leave a bed warmer at the foot of the mattress for her. Who had done it, she wondered. Parker?
It couldn’t have been Roy. She shivered a little, then burrowed a little farther under the woolen blankets at the memory of the icy looks he had sent her throughout dinner, not to mention the hostile glances he’d shot Ike for talking to her. And it was certainly no coincidence that the man had very loudly volunteered to sleep out in the barn rather than spend a night under the same roof as her.
Parker had been right to warn her. Roy disliked women, and he seemed especially to dislike her.
Strange, though, how nice he’d seemed at the station! What could account for the difference? Had she said something to make him suspicious?
Despite the cold, her cheeks heated with the misery of a guilty conscience. The trouble was, Roy McMillan was so right to have his doubts about her! Here she was basking in McMillan hospitality, and not a word she’d told them about herself was true. She wasn’t wealthy, or married. Worse still, she was a fallen woman, carrying a baby without a father. What would they say if they found out about that?
Oh, she’d thought it would be so simple to live a fiction. After all, she’d always imagined herself as a lady of leisure; how else could she have endured the drudgery of being a housemaid? And she’d read so much about rich people in books. But now that she was supposed to be really filling the role of Mrs. Eleanor Fitzsimmons, rich widow, imagination escaped her. She hadn’t been able to answer Roy’s probing questions about how she filled her day, so she’d evaded him by focusing all her attention on Ike. Had Roy noticed? Was he piecing together her falsehoods?
Her heart thundered in trepidation. Found out, found out, found out, its insistent beats shouted in her ear. If Roy could see through her, how long would it be until the others did, or until he told them that she was a fake? She could only hope it would be long enough for her to get her feet on the ground and decide what she could do here in Nebraska. Paradise was a bustling, industrious little town. Surely there was some occupatio
n she could fill there.
But what if there wasn’t? What if she had a baby to feed and care for, and no one in Paradise needed a sales clerk or a maid or a seamstress? What alternative did that leave her but the most dreaded, oldest profession there was?
She shuddered, remembering the many seedy back-of-barroom brothels near the train depots of various towns. Just looking at them had made her feel filthy. And her miserable experience with Percy Sternhagen, consisting of an unpleasantly frantic coupling in the upstairs linen closet, certainly did not make her eager to repeat the experience with other, rougher men. How could those unfortunate women by the railroad tracks stand it? Was there some trick that would make the attentions of greedy, heavy-breathing louts less sickening? Could an exchange of money make the coupling less vile? Or maybe if the act were performed on a bedsheet, instead of simply being pressed against them in a cupboard….
But surely, surely, it would never come to that. She would certainly do any kind of degrading work before prostitution became an option. She could be a laundress or a cook. She frowned, trying to remember the last time she’d successfully cooked anything on her own more complicated than a tin of beans. But she could learn, couldn’t she? If men here were accustomed to eating the kind of tasteless boiled and burned mess she’d sampled tonight, could she do any worse?
The thought of only having to meet that low standard cheered her. This wasn’t a time for panic, she reminded herself. She was beginning a new life—just as she was carrying new life. She hugged her rounded belly under the covers, trying to will herself into believing her fiction. She was a widow. Percy Sternhagen—who she would refer to now as Percy Fitzsimmons—was dead. That, at least, was a state of affairs she could savor playing to the hilt! She could tell the McMillans that her dear departed husband had made some bad investments, and that she now had to earn her bread. People, believing she was a widow, would feel sorry for her when her baby arrived. No one would look down on her child because he or she had no father. The baby wouldn’t be branded as illegitimate.
Liz Ireland Page 4