Bridget’s mouth dropped open. Skye giggled behind one hand, while Noah reached out both arms for Trace and said, “Papa, papa.”
Trace took the boy from the saddle and settled him on one of his shoulders. The reverend took a handkerchief from the pocket of his frayed black waistcoat and wiped his brow.
“You can see,” Trace added in a confidential tone, “that it’s urgent.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the reverend. “Yes, indeed. Well, come inside, all of you, and let’s attend to this matter.”
“Now, wait just one moment,” Bridget protested. “I ought to have something to say about this, it seems to me, and I—”
Skye and Trace and Noah all turned their gazes in her direction at once. She thought of unfriendly Indians and thunderstorms, snakebites and starvation, and knew in that moment that she had to agree to the marriage if she were going to live in the same skin with her conscience.
“All right,” she said. “All right. But I would like a word with my future husband before the ceremony. Alone.”
Beaming, Skye sprang down from Sis’s back, tied her to the nearest hitching post, and, collecting Noah from Trace’s shoulders, followed the reverend into the church tent.
Trace put his hands on Bridget’s waist and lifted her down, and just that much contact took her breath away, so that it was a moment or two before she could speak.
“Now, you listen to me, Trace Qualtrough,” she whispered in a burst, waggling a finger under his nose. “We might be man and wife after this, but that does not mean that you will—that I will allow you to—”
He chuckled, bent to place a light, teasing kiss on her mouth, effectively silencing her. “I understand,” he said. “We’ll wait until you’re ready or until that bedroom is finished, whichever comes first.”
Bridget’s mouth opened again; he closed it with a slight upward pressure from the fingertips of his right hand.
“This isn’t a game, Bridget. I want a real wife. A home. Children.”
She swallowed. “Children?” She hadn’t thought much about that since Mitch was killed, though she’d wanted a big family before he died, for she hadn’t expected to marry again.
“A whole passel of them,” he said.
“Good heavens,” Bridget said, and fanned her face with one hand.
He laughed again, took her arm, and propelled her toward the doorway of the church tent. “Now, don’t go fretting yourself,” he teased in an undertone. “I’ll wait as long as a week.”
It happened in a whirl of small events that all fit together to seal Bridget’s fate, once and for all. The pastor of Primrose Creek’s first church introduced himself as “Reverend Taylor, just Taylor.” There were rows of benches, and someone had erected a modest pulpit of raw, unpainted wood.
Skye stood at Bridget’s side, to serve as her maid of honor, and Noah, settled comfortably on Trace’s hip, was the best man. The reverend cleared his throat and opened his prayer book with a solemnity suitable for such an occasion.
Bridget thought of running, just turning on her heel and fleeing, more than once, but the ceremony was over before she’d gotten up the nerve. Reverend Taylor pronounced her and Trace husband and wife, and Trace leaned down and touched his mouth to Bridget’s.
The powerful, heated shock of that second kiss turned her already riotous senses to an indescribable muddle of wildly varying sensations. She had never guessed that a simple peck on the lips could provoke such havoc; this was very different from the quiet tenderness she’d felt when Mitch kissed her. Very different indeed.
She looked down at the golden band Trace had slipped onto her left-hand ring finger and was amazed. Trace had showed her that ring only a few days before and told her with certainty that they were about to be married. She hadn’t believed him, but here she was, with a husband and a new name. She’d make an entry in the McQuarry Bible as soon as she got home.
After the wedding, Trace bought dinner for the four of them in the mess tent next to Jake Vigil’s sawmill, surrounded by lumbermen and miners, drifters and farmers. Bridget thought they must all know she’d gone ahead and married Trace Qualtrough even though she’d sworn she could not be persuaded. The food, venison stew and fresh bread with lots of butter, was delicious, but Bridget didn’t eat much. She was thinking about the coming night, her wedding night, wondering if Trace would honor his promise to wait until she was ready.
Even in her agitated state, Bridget noticed the way the men crowding the tent kept stealing sidelong glances at Skye, and that brought all her protective instincts to the fore. Very likely, these men knew Trace had been staying at the cabin and had concluded that the McQuarry women must be loose.
It ought to be obvious to these men that Skye was far too young and too innocent for courting, but even if they had noticed, they did not seem to be dissuaded. One of them, a young man in workman’s clothes, had the nerve to approach the table. He had dark hair and green eyes, and Bridget supposed he was handsome enough, but he didn’t look as though he had good prospects.
He cleared his throat and reddened a little when Skye looked up at him and smiled questioningly. The onlookers—and that included virtually everyone else in the mess tent—hooted and elbowed one another.
“My name’s Tom Barkley,” the boy said.
Skye glanced at Bridget, then met Barkley’s green gaze. “Skye McQuarry.”
More hoots and howls. Tom turned and took in the whole place with an angry gesture of one hand—the hand that held his slouch hat. “You all tend to your own business,” he said, “and I’ll tend to mine.”
“Do something,” Bridget whispered, elbowing Trace.
He reached for another piece of bread and buttered it calmly. “About what?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well.
“There’s a dance on Saturday night,” Tom said to Skye. “I would count it an honor if you’d let me bring you.”
Bridget opened her mouth, fell silent when Trace’s hand came to rest lightly on her forearm.
Skye averted her gaze for a few moments, then looked up into Tom’s earnest, youthful face and nodded. “I’d like that,” she said.
A great tension seemed to leave Tom at her agreement; his serious expression turned to a smile that even Bridget would have had to admit was endearing. If anyone would have asked her, that is. Nobody did.
“I’ll come by for you at six o’clock,” Tom Barkley said.
Skye regarded him steadily. “I—I don’t really know how to dance.”
Tom’s grin broadened. “That’s all right,” he said generously. “Neither do I. I reckon we can work it out together.”
Bridget cast a quick, sidelong glance in her husband’s direction.
“Your baby sister is old enough to have callers,” he said very quietly. “Loosen your grip, if you don’t want to drive her off.”
Bridget sighed, folded her hands in her lap, and waited for the meal to end. All she wanted now was to go home, push up her sleeves, and deal with whatever was going to happen next.
Chapter
7
Trace acted as if nothing much had happened when they got home; without a word about the wedding, he put the horses to pasture and proceeded to pace off the area of the barn, pounding stakes into the ground to mark the corners. Bridget stood watching him until he looked her way and waved, and then she turned on one heel and fled into the cabin.
Noah was sitting on the floor, playing with the top Trace had bought for him, and Skye was on her knees in front of the trunk, pawing through the assorted garments inside.
“That blue silk,” she said in a distracted tone of voice. “You brought that, didn’t you? You didn’t leave it behind in Virginia?”
Bridget felt a pang of nostalgia. Trace was right; Skye was no longer a little girl, and it was natural for her to have suitors. Knowing those things did nothing to ease Bridget’s aching heart, however. She had been as much a mother to Skye as an elder sister, and she loved her with a fierce intensity. �
��It’s there somewhere,” she said.
Skye found the gown, held it up by the shoulders. “It ought to fit, if I let it out a little and take down the hem.” She met Bridget’s gaze at last, clutching the simple dress against her chest as though it were woven of golden thread and trimmed in pearls. “I can wear it, can’t I? Please?”
Bridget swallowed. She cared nothing about the dress, but her sister’s well-being was another matter. “Yes,” she said. “You can wear it. But don’t you think—well—shouldn’t you get to know Mr. Barkley a little better, before you go off to a dance with him?”
Skye’s lovely face darkened. She got to her feet, holding the gown carefully the whole time. “How can I get to know the man at all if I can’t talk to him?” she countered. She had an obstinate glint in her eyes, and her chin jutted out a little way. “I’m going to that dance, even if you won’t let me borrow this dress.”
“It’s yours,” Bridget said gently. Things would change between Skye and herself, after this day. There would be more callers, more dances, more dangers than a girl of sixteen could imagine. All the same, Skye would need her sister less and less, from now on, until finally she wouldn’t need her at all.
The thought made a lonely ache in Bridget’s chest. Trace was right; she had to let go of Skye, but it was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. Even worse, it wouldn’t be long before Noah, too, was grown.
Skye must have seen something in the expression on Bridget’s face, for she sighed, crossed the room, and embraced her quickly but with real affection. “You’ve always protected me, looked after me, worried about me,” she said, tears glistening at the roots of her lashes. “I’ll always be grateful. But don’t you see, Bridge? It’s your turn to be happy. For once in your life, think of yourself.”
Bridget sniffled, summoned up a wavery smile. “I’m married,” she said. “Oh, Skye, what on earth possessed me to take Trace Qualtrough for a husband?”
Skye laughed and kissed Bridget’s forehead. “I think you showed a great deal of discernment, choosing him. It surprised me a little, to tell the truth—I was afraid you’d either never marry again or hitch yourself to somebody who wanted taking care of.” She paused, blushing a little when she saw Bridget’s face quicken with amused interest. “You know, because you’re so strong and everything. Let him love you, Bridge. Please, just set your pride aside and let Trace love you.”
Bridget was forced to turn away then. Love had nothing to do with her marriage to Trace; she’d loved one man in her life, and that was Mitch. To let those feelings die would be a cruelty, an unthinkable betrayal. No, her union with Trace was merely one of convenience. “You’d best get started on that dress,” she said, tying on an apron, “if you expect to have it ready by Saturday.”
Skye let out a long sigh.
Noah had gone to the doorway, where the afternoon sun shone around him. “Listen, Mama. There’s wagons coming.”
Sure enough, the faint sound of creaking wheels and horses’ hooves found its way across the creek. “That would be the lumber Trace ordered for the barn,” Bridget said. And the bedroom, added a voice in her mind.
How long, she wondered, without examining her reasons too closely, did it take to build a barn?
To Skye’s delight, Tom Barkley was driving one of the two huge wagons; he and Mr. Vigil drove right across the creek without even pausing, calling to their reluctant teams and slapping down the reins.
“Tom here had himself an idea,” Mr. Vigil said, cocking a thumb in the other man’s direction, when Bridget joined the visitors and her husband—her husband—on the future site of the barn. “Said we ought to have the Saturday night dance out here, at your place. Some of us could come early and help you raise the walls.” He looked up, assessed the sky. “Sooner you have shelter for your stock, the better. The weather can change pretty quickly around here. Turn nasty, the way it did last night.”
Bridget gnawed on her lower lip. A barn could go up pretty quickly when folks lent a hand, and that meant she might find herself sharing a room with Trace far sooner than she’d expected. An unseemly thrill raced through her, chased by a sense of delicious alarm. She didn’t dare glance in Trace’s direction, because she knew he’d be looking at her, reading her mind. Grinning.
“We’d be obliged for any help,” she heard Trace say.
It was settled, as easily as that. Trace and Mr. Vigil and Tom set themselves to unloading the lumber and two kegs of nails, and then the visitors took their leave, rattling away in their huge, empty wagons.
Stacks of fragrant timber stood all around.
“I suppose you think you’re pretty clever,” Bridget said to Trace under her breath as the two of them stood side by side, waving Tom and Jake Vigil out of sight. “You’ll have that barn finished in a fraction of the time with so much help. And how did you pay for all this?”
Trace laughed. “I can’t figure out whether you’re pleased or ready to tie into me with your claws out. As for the lumber, I made a swap with Jake. His pinewood for my help finishing his mill.”
“You amaze me,” Bridget confessed.
And Trace laughed again. “Just you wait,” he said. “There are more surprises ahead.”
Saturday morning brought seventeen men, armed with saws and hammers, chisels and measuring sticks. The barn seemed to take shape before Bridget’s very eyes; every time she ventured to peer around the corner of the cabin, another wall was framed. By late afternoon, the walls were up, and the roof was being nailed into place.
Skye changed into her carefully altered dancing gown well beforehand, put her hair up, let it down, put it up again. She paced and waited and watched the progress of the sun as it descended in the western skies, as if by watching she could hurry it along. Bridget hid her smile and concentrated on keeping track of Noah; he wanted very much to participate in the barn building, but he was forbidden to go near the project. Even Trace had agreed to that; it was simply too dangerous.
Skye was visibly relieved when sunset finally settled over the land, and Bridget herself felt a certain sweet excitement. Now, the horses would have stalls, walls to keep out wolves and at least discourage unfriendly Indians, a thick roof to shelter them from rain and wind and snow. She could get a cow. Plant a field of hay next summer. . . .
But it wasn’t the practicality of having a barn that made her want to sing, and she knew it. It was the idea of dancing with Trace, being held in his arms, looking up into his eyes. She’d hardly thought of anything else since their wedding three days before, even though Trace had been nothing if not a gentleman. He hadn’t even tried to kiss her, as a matter of fact.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, she’d have been furious if he made any untoward advances. On the other, she was indignant that he hadn’t.
As evening approached, guests began to arrive, in wagons, in buggies, on foot, and on horseback. Lanterns were lit, and the musicians—miners with fiddles and a dark-skinned man with a guitar—set themselves up to play in the pitch-scented confines of the new barn. There were a few women, grim-faced and clearly on the lookout for sin run amok, but most of the revelers were men. When the music started, a spirited jig, they danced with one another. Skye and Mr. Barkley joined in, laughing at their own stumbling efforts to get in step, and Bridget looked on, clapping in time to the music, Noah at her side.
Trace came up behind her, mussed Noah’s hair with one hand.
“Well, Mrs. Qualtrough,” Trace said. “What do you think of your barn?”
Mrs. Qualtrough. Now, wasn’t that something? A sweet quiver started in the pit of her stomach and radiated outward, into every part of her. “It’s very sturdy,” she allowed.
He grinned. “That it is,” he said. “Plenty of lumber left, too. I can start building on to the house right away.”
Bridget knew he was trying to get a rise out of her, and she was darned if she’d let him succeed. He’d shaken her up enough as it was.
It was about time somebody turned the tables on Trace Qualtrough. “Yes,” she said, watching the dancers, clapping her hands, smiling. “And I’ve been thinking. You’re doing all the work. You ought to have that room to yourself.”
He took her elbow, turned her to face him, and pulled her into his arms. Noah was already at the other end of the barn by that time—the older he got, the faster he moved, it seemed to Bridget—watching the fiddlers ply their bows, and a dizzy feeling made her head light. The musicians took up a reel, and Trace spun both of them into its midst without missing a step.
“That wasn’t our agreement,” he pointed out.
Bridget beamed up at him, but the familiar anger, never far from the surface, was crackling inside her. “Are you saying that I must pay for this barn with my favors?”
He wasn’t even pretending to smile by then, but he kept up with the lively tune spilling from the fiddles and the guitar, and made Bridget keep up, too. “You know damn well that isn’t what I meant,” he said. “You’re my wife. I told you, I want a real marriage—complete with kids.”
“What about Mitch?”
He stopped, pulled her out of the barn to stand with him under a drapery of sparkling stars. “Mitch,” he said, his face close to hers, “is dead. It’s about time you accepted that.”
Bridget wanted to slug him, because deep down, she knew he was right, and it was too painful a thing to admit. “Do you think I need reminding of that? He’s lying in the ground somewhere, while we’re—we’re—” She gestured toward the barn, spilling light and music. “Dancing.”
He took her by the sides of her waist and dragged her hard against him. “What’s wrong with that, Bridget?” he demanded. “Husbands and wives dance together.”
She was breathless. He was, well, hard. Everywhere. The warm summer night seemed even warmer, all of a sudden. She pulled away. “You didn’t come home,” she seethed, and suddenly tears were streaming down her face. “You wrote me a letter to tell me my husband was dead, but you didn’t come home. Damn you, I watched the road for you, every day and every night—”
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