A careful inventory of the so-called kitchen left her with nothing flammable to speak of, so she went outside and searched the yard and the barn. Still nothing. What did he use to light fires? Grass, perhaps? It seemed he used it for everything else, but how could anyone keep a fire going with only grass?
All of a sudden, she didn’t feel so clever. The simple task of cooking supper was now a daunting assignment. Her insides reeled with frustration. Briggs was probably crouching out in his field, spying on her and waiting for her to fail, even if it meant coming home hungrier than a lion to a wife in tears, hunched over an empty table.
What was she going to do now? She couldn’t face him with a cold slab of salt pork when he came home, but she wasn’t about to waste time experimenting with the art of burning grass, either. Heaven forbid her husband should return and discover her doing something wrong. She’d never hear the end of it.
She walked onto the roof, raising a hand to shade her eyes from the sun while she looked all around for Briggs. Strangely, her stomach flipped when she spotted him, far off across the field. At least he wasn’t spying on her, she thought with a wee snippet of inopportune humor. He was piercing hay with a pitchfork and tossing it into his wagon. Standing shirtless in the tall grass, he was visible only from the waist up, his golden hair and golden skin blending into the prairie. At that moment, Sarah remembered how wonderfully promising she had thought this land when she’d looked out the train window only yesterday.
It seemed a hundred years ago.
She flopped down onto the grassy roof. Why had Briggs left her so soon without explaining how things were done here? She could feel that irksome lump forming in her throat again, but she would not cry. She’d managed to survive the day so far and she would manage to survive the rest of it. All she had to do was venture out there and ask a few simple questions.
May a thorn prick her pride for making it so difficult.
Hiking along the wagon tracks, carrying a bucket of cold water and a tin cup, Sarah rehearsed her questions. She had to ask them in a way that made her seem confident and comfortable in her new surroundings. In order to truly feel that way, she had to learn a hundred-and-one new ways to be a wife, and fast.
The bucket grew heavier with each labored stride she took into the hot summer wind, until her arm felt like it was being wrenched from its socket. Water sloshed and splashed into the grass but she didn’t mind, if it lightened her load a bit. All she had to do was ignore her own thirst and forget the idea of taking a drink herself before she reached her grumpy husband.
Huffing and puffing, she tramped onward with forced confidence until Briggs looked up from his work. An unwelcome tremor of exhilaration pulsed within her as she tried not to stare at his muscular chest with the sun raining down upon him, reflecting off the droplets of perspiration like tiny diamonds. He paused for a brief second or two and watched her, then leaned to the task again, spearing hay with the pitchfork and tossing it over his shoulder into the wagon.
“Hello, there,” she said shakily, reaching him.
He pitched one last mound of hay, then stopped and leaned the fork against the wagon. “What are you doing out here?”
“I brought you something to drink.” She set the bucket in the grass, scooped out a cup of water and held it out to him.
He glared at it suspiciously, as if he thought it might contain arsenic. A trickle of sweat made a trail from his temple along his hairline, and he wiped it with his forearm before raising the cup to his lips. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head while Sarah watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. The skin on his neck shone with perspiration, and she found herself taking shallow breaths at the awesome sight of him.
Despite his determination to dislike her, and despite his wild, ungroomed appearance, she found herself noticing how ruggedly masculine he was. He was nothing like Garrison, who enjoyed dressing fashionably and styling his mustache and hair each evening before going out.
No, Briggs was significantly manly in a style she’d never encountered before. She’d be surprised if he ran a comb through that thick hair each day. Yet it fell naturally onto his shoulders without the slightest disagreement. His trousers were stained with ground-in dust and dirt, which for some reason did not disgust her. In fact, it had the opposite effect.
He drank the water then bent forward and filled another cup. Resting a muscled arm along the side of the wagon and crossing one ankle over the other, he met her gaze. “Not enough to keep you busy today?”
“There’s plenty,” she responded, trying to come up with a dignified way to ask how to light a fire.
“I appreciate the drink, but it wasn’t necessary.”
Sarah wet her parched lips. “I thought you might be thirsty. And why do you have to make me feel irresponsible for trying to do you a favor?”
“I’m not trying to make you feel anything at all, Sarah. If you feel irresponsible, don’t blame me.” He flicked the cup, tossing the last shimmering diamonds of water into the wind.
“I don’t feel irresponsible! I—” She stopped herself, realizing with stunning presence of mind that she was reacting just as he wanted her to. He wanted to frustrate her, to punish her for the secret she’d kept from him last night. Well, she wasn’t going to break. She wasn’t.
“In all honesty, I would like nothing more than to get to work, but you left me behind with little idea as to how you like things done in your home, so I had to come all the way out here to ask what you use for firewood. Now, whose fault is that?”
A sly, subtle grin crossed his lips. He wiped his forearm across his mouth while Sarah resisted the thrill of staring into eyes that twinkled like emeralds.
He set the cup on the wagon seat behind him. “You don’t know much about prairie living, do you?”
Sarah clenched her jaw. “Why do I get the impression you’re happy about that?”
“Happy? Me? I’ll be happy when I get this hay in. As for your difficulties, I haven’t given them much thought.”
She found that hard to believe.
He walked to the horses to tug at a harness buckle. “Ask me anything and I’ll tell you. I’m not trying to keep any secrets.”
Sarah looked down at the bucket at her feet. “I just want to know what you use for firewood.”
He came around to stand before her, only inches away. Her gaze fell to his hard, rippled stomach.
“Oh, yes. Firewood. You won’t find much of that out here.”
Sarah managed to make eye contact. “What do you burn, then?”
“We burn cow chips.”
She stared blankly at him, trying to interpret his meaning. “Cow chips? Do you mean…?”
“Yep.”
She wondered for a moment if this was a cruel joke, but decided her husband couldn’t possibly be that inventive. She could feel her insides beginning to whirl at the thought of collecting this so-called fuel and stoking the stove all day long. “Isn’t there anything else you can—”
“Nope.”
She swallowed uncomfortably. “Do you have a store of these chips in your barn?”
Briggs shook his head. “No, but you should start one. Take the wheelbarrow and head out that way.” He stretched his long arm and pointed. “A herd drove by not long ago. The chips will be scattered everywhere, nice and dry.”
Sarah gazed despondently at the horizon.
“Careful not to get lost,” Briggs added, bending forward at the waist. He lifted the bucket and dumped the remaining water over his head. It cascaded down his smooth hair and onto his shoulders, then he shook his head like a wet dog and splattered Sarah’s dress.
She raised both hands protectively and jumped back. “Do you mind? I’ve already had my bath today.”
“Thought it might cool you off.”
With the hot sun burning her face, Sarah stared for a stifling moment at the rivulets of water blazing silver trails down his chest, then she dutifully tore her gaze away and flicked her han
d over the front of her bodice. Trying to recapture some of her dignity, she brushed a tendril of hair away from her perspiring forehead. “I’ll see you at dusk,” she announced curtly, pivoting on her heel and stomping away.
She’d gone at least twenty paces before he called after her. “You forgot your bucket!”
Sarah stopped and squeezed her eyes shut. She’d been so happy with that dramatic exit, too.
Taking a deep, frustrated breath, she considered ignoring him and continuing on her way, but that was the only bucket in the house that wasn’t filled with ashes, and she’d likely need it to cook supper. Raising her chin, she turned and marched back with no shortage of theatrics. Sarah scooped up the empty bucket, glared at his insufferable, grinning face, then pivoted on her heels again. Ten more paces, and he called out one more time. “And your cup!”
Sarah stopped. If she returned and met that self-satisfied expression one more time, she would likely swing her bucket by the handle and bat him over the head with it. After considering that option for a second or two and receiving some satisfaction from the image in her mind, she forced herself to forget it. She would persevere. Sarah leaned into the wind and strode forward. Even if she was shriveling with dehydration, she would do without that cup until supper.
Chapter Seven
This is comical, Sarah convinced herself, as she dropped her weary body into a chair, trying to translate her devastated dreams into something worth laughing about.
In the past hour, she had stoked the stove with cow chips, carried the heavy cornmeal sack to the table, added more chips to the fire, washed her hands, measured the flour, added more chips, washed her hands, measured the fat, mixed the biscuit dough, added more chips, washed her hands….
Now, as she wiped perspiration from her brow and waited for the biscuits to cook, she wondered in a panic if she’d washed her hands again before dropping the biscuits onto the pan that last time….
Maybe she’d pass on the biscuits tonight.
Without warning, a dark silhouette appeared in the doorway. Sarah gasped and jumped to her feet. Briggs strode down the stairs, and she wished she’d heard him approach so she could have freshened up. She’d wanted so badly to appear in control, but her hair was a wild mess sticking to the back of her neck, and when she swept two fingers across her cheek, she discovered her face was damp with perspiration.
“You got grease on your nose,” Briggs pointed out, reaching the bottom step and removing his hat, then stroking Shadow who had risen to greet him.
Sarah turned away and frantically rubbed both hands over her face. When she faced Briggs again, he was sitting down at the table. Shadow returned to his spot on the floor by the bed.
“Supper will be ready in one minute,” she said quickly, opening the squeaky oven door. The smell of golden, cooked biscuits floated out and filled the sod house. Sarah smiled triumphantly, hoping Briggs possessed a keen sense of smell.
She reached into the hot oven and grasped the pan, using her apron to protect her hand, but exclaimed when the heat sneaked through to her fingers. “Ouch!” She dropped the pan with a clatter onto the table, directly in front of Briggs.
He leaned back in the chair, raising the front legs off the floor. She was sucking her stinging fingers. “Do I get a plate, or do you want me to eat out of the pan?”
Sarah pulled her fingers out of her mouth with a pop, then balled her hands into fists. The man was enjoying himself too much for her present mood. She turned on her heels, picked up two plates from a shelf by the stove, and set them onto the table. “There, how’s that? Would you like some fresh oysters and wine? Perhaps some strawberries and cream? It shouldn’t be a problem.”
Briggs stared up at her for a long second, then leaned forward and dropped the chair legs onto the dirt floor. “Difficult day was it, Mrs. Brigman?”
“My name is Sarah, and you…” She clicked her teeth shut. Control yourself, she thought, closing her eyes to shut him out for a second or two. When she opened them, she forced a smile as sweet as candy, then took a deep, calming breath. “No, it wasn’t difficult at all. In fact, I found it quite pleasant. Would you like a beverage? I was just waiting for the biscuits to come out of the oven before I skipped down to the creek to fill a bucket of water.”
A tremor of fatigue shook her as she stared spellbound into his lush, green gaze. Whatever emotion lurked beyond those eyes was a mystery to her, and she wondered dismally if a day would come when she would understand her husband’s mind.
Briggs leaned forward and rested an arm on the table. “The biscuits are out of the oven.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said the biscuits are out of the oven. What are you waiting for? Time to go skipping down to the creek.”
Sarah took a step back, exasperated, resisting the desire to fling the hot pan of biscuits into his lap. Instead, she picked it up using her bunched apron, and with a measure of poise, scooped the biscuits into a bowl. “I’ll be right back,” she said, wishing she’d had the forethought to carry the water up before she put the biscuits in the oven. But having to stoke the stove so often, she didn’t dare leave it alone.
Wiping her hands on her skirt, she headed for the door, adding with a sharp bite, “Why don’t you relax for a minute? Put your feet up. I’ll be right back.”
Fuming, she picked up the bucket of water she’d used to wash her hands a hundred times that afternoon, climbed the steps, and emerged out of the stuffy sod house into the evening. The western horizon beyond the cornfield glowed a radiant pink, and a cool breeze blew by, lifting the hair off the sticky skin at her neck. The walk to the creek would do her good, she decided, staring at the magnificent magenta sky and struggling to appreciate it.
When she returned to the house with a half-full bucket of water, she slowed when she discovered Briggs lounging in a chair outside the front door with his back to her, one foot raised and resting on a barrel, Shadow sitting beside him. They were both facing the sunset. Sarah stopped and gently set the bucket in the grass, realizing he hadn’t heard her footsteps beneath the hissing whisper of the wind across the grass and wheat.
Odd, she thought, how the first day of this marriage seemed more like a contest than a relationship. She’d revealed nothing of herself since they arrived here, and she considered for a moment that she was as much to blame as he was for the state of things at this moment. She was determined to hide her emotions. How long could she continue being this person who would not give him an inch of what she truly was?
Staring at his broad shoulders beneath the loose-fitting white shirt, she remembered his gentle reassurances of the previous night, before he had made love to her and put the finishing touch on their so-called agreement. It had turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. Trying to understand it, she decided that it must have been his hands. They’d been warm and gentle and somehow more knowledgeable about certain parts of her body than she was. How did he know where to touch her to make her feel the way he had made her feel?
It had been nothing like her night with Garrison. Yet it had ended more disastrously.
Pity, that the marriage act could twice ruin her life. She wished there were no such thing!
Her battle instincts somewhat deflated, Sarah picked up the bucket and walked toward her husband. She understood where his hostility was coming from—they’d gotten off to a bad start, to be sure—and she realized she wanted things to be better. She was tired of being angry. It was time to stop perpetuating the friction. Perhaps if she warmed up to him, he would let it go.
When she paused in front of him, he dropped his leg to the ground and squinted up at her. “Did you have a nice skip down to the creek?”
Putting it behind them, it seemed, was going to prove a challenge. “Yes, I did, thank you.” Her shadow fell across his face, and she waited for his next attempt to rile her, but oddly, he leaned forward and placed his large hand on her hip.
Sarah’s blood burst into hot embers, speeding throu
gh her veins. What in heaven’s name was he doing, and why couldn’t she relax about it? They were married, after all.
“You’re blocking my view of the sunset.” He gently pushed her to the side. The dog whimpered at his feet.
Sarah stood like a fool, her heart racing while she had to remind herself to breathe. She wished she could just live here without reacting so strongly to this man’s every move! She simply had to give it more time, she decided. This was only their first day. Once she got used to things, she’d barely notice his presence.
He crossed his ankle over his knee, then glanced up at her again. “Don’t you have something to do?”
Unable to understand how a man could be so attractive in one way and so utterly contemptible in another, Sarah hoped a hearty supper might warm his nature a bit. She turned to go inside, clinging to that hope. “Come in anytime. Food will be on the table waiting for you.”
Briggs rubbed Shadow’s ears, then stretched his arms over his head, wishing he hadn’t sent Sarah all the way to the creek for fresh water when she was obviously exhausted. He sure did overdo it with her today, but he reckoned the things she told him about her lover bothered him more than he realized.
He rose from the chair and pulled it back against the front wall of the house, glanced once more at the scarlet-streaked sky, then retreated with Shadow into the dark little soddie.
“I’ll light a lantern,” he said, reaching the bottom step, then his gaze fell upon Sarah whose head was resting in her arms on the table, her eyes closed.
Briggs crossed the room to the lamp by the bed and struck a match, breathing in the scent of sulphur as he lowered the flame to the wick. He expected Sarah to wake, startled upon seeing him in the sudden light, but the poor exhausted woman continued to sleep. His stomach roared with a reminder that he had not eaten since breakfast, and his eyes searched the stove for food.
Julianne MacLean Page 6