He could tell that she did mind having dinner with Mr. Schuyler, but he didn’t know why. One way or another, he was determined to find out.
* * *
“Beatrix,” Colton called out in exasperation. “I thought we discussed this.”
A cloud of dust dissipated, revealing the crouched figure of his wife sweeping out the hearth.
“I am not working,” she replied over a delicate cough. “I am sweeping the hearth.”
“Sweeping the hearth is most definitely work.”
Since Beatrix had repeatedly declined the larger houses he’d initially considered, they’d settled on a smaller cottage two blocks north of the livery. Her choice had fewer rooms, but the spaces were well divided. The ground floor featured a bedroom, parlor and kitchen, with three decent-sized bedrooms on the second floor.
“Not very hard work,” she grumbled. “You said no hard work.”
“Sit, please.” He yanked a chair from its tucked location beneath the kitchen table and strode into the parlor. “Sitting in a chair is not working.”
Meek now, she slumped onto the chair, her knees pressed together and her heels splayed. “I can’t simply sit like a...like a stone. Certainly there’s something useful I can accomplish.”
She’d slipped into German, a sure sign of her annoyance.
“You can ease my worrying by not lifting, dusting or scrubbing,” he declared, refusing to be swayed by her pleading. “I would find that extremely helpful.”
His own mood was rapidly souring. Though neither he nor Beatrix had much in the way of belongings, simply crossing town was a misery. Colton yanked off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, clearing the moisture from the brim. Icy flakes had peppered his cheeks and burrowed into the space between his gloves and coat sleeves.
The snow was more a mixture of sleet and ice. An odd temperate day amongst the frigid chill had softened the previous layer. The slushy mess had turned the streets to sludge, sucking at the wagon wheels and splattering mud on the horses. He’d loaded most of his belongings into the wagon bed and thrown a tarp over the top to keep the worst of the weather at bay. With the howling wind, he’d spent the short trip battling to keep the tarp in place.
He’d ordered Beatrix to sit more than once, but she’d defied his well-meaning orders at every turn. Between watching the weather, organizing the transfer of furniture, and ensuring Beatrix didn’t overextend herself, his temper was running thin.
Colton mentally dug in his heels. “I have to finish unloading the wagon. Remember—no work.”
He’d also had to face the galling truth of a flaw in his own personality. He didn’t like change. Though content with the choices he’d made, having his living situation thrown into an uproar had him off balance. Frustrated by his own shortcoming, he struggled against his rapidly decaying mood. The Schuyler boys had him on edge, as well. He’d be happy when the two were all finished and would go home.
“No work,” she muttered.
At least the chaos suited Beatrix. She’d wound a handkerchief around her hair, but her curls had escaped in charming confusion. She wore a white apron tied over her tan wool dress, and her old brown boots peeked from beneath her skirts. She huffed, levitating a ringlet from her damp forehead.
“No work,” he ordered once more, punctuating his command with a pointed finger.
She lifted her eyes heavenward. “Ja.”
Ten minutes later, Colton pushed through the backdoor into the kitchen and rested a box on the table, then glanced at the vacant room on his left. They’d decided to leave the first floor bedroom empty in anticipation of his grandparents’ eventual visit.
A sound caught his attention.
Beatrix balanced on a chair, whisking a feather duster around the high shelves. She’d rolled up the sleeves of her tan wool dress and stretched up on her tiptoes. Taking one look at her precarious balance on the chair, he didn’t waste time with words.
Striding the distance, he swooped her into his arms. She startled and cried out.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “Where is Joseph? Shouldn’t he be keeping you occupied?”
“He’s sleeping.” She playfully slapped at his arms. “You gave me a fright.”
He set her on her feet. She held the feather duster between them. Colton sneezed.
His pulse picked up rhythm. He removed the cleaning implement from her hand and set the duster aside. His free hand lingered on her waist. Not for the first time he noticed how delicate her wrists and hands where. She wasn’t fragile, but she was still distinctly feminine in a way that made him want to cherish her, protect her.
He’d never had this heart-pounding reaction with another woman. Not that he’d had much experience with the fairer sex. During the war, ladies had occasionally assembled dances for the soldiers, but he’d rarely participated. Following his move to Cowboy Creek, he’d spent his time working and growing his business. As the only blacksmith in town, he’d kept busy. Though Will and Daniel had invited him to various town celebrations, he’d always declined.
At first, Noah Burgess—the third soldier from their unit who had helped to found Cowboy Creek—had been on Colton’s side. Both confirmed bachelors content with their solitude, they’d banded together against Will and Daniel’s meddling attempts to make the pair of them be more sociable. But since Noah had gotten married—to a mail-order bride arranged behind his back by Daniel and Will—Colton had been pushed to attend far too many social occasions. He’d held stubbornly to his refusal. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Maybe he would be a better husband, better able to make his wife happy, if he was more accustomed to interacting with women.
Beatrix tilted her head. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmm, you are making faces as though you are thinking about something.”
A gust of wind outside caught one of the shutters and slammed it against the house. Her startled jump brought her even closer. Circling his waist with her arms, she leaned into him. Taller than average, her head rested just beneath his chin. She fit against him as though she belonged there. He closed his hands around her waist and pulled her even closer. Her soft sigh whispered against his neck.
He recalled the sight of her balanced on the chair, and a rampant protectiveness surged through him. “No more dusting the shelves.”
Her glorious hair tickled his chin. Tendrils escaped the knotted handkerchief, fluttering in abandon around her face.
She chuckled. “You nearly toppled me by grabbing me so suddenly.”
“I saved your life. Besides, I’m the one who should be terrified.” He pressed his lips against the smudge of dirt on her forehead. “Seeing you teetering on that chair scared the life out of me. I thought we agreed. You are only here to give directions and dictate the placement of furniture.”
He leaned back enough to see the hint of a pout in her expression.
“I’m not an invalid,” she said. “I’m accustomed to hard work. You needn’t coddle me.”
He smoothed a stray lock of hair from her forehead and dropped another light kiss against the smudge. “I know.”
And yet he very much did want to coddle her. She’d been through so much over the past months. That first day, she’d seemed appallingly isolated and alone. While he mustn’t pursue this untenable attraction, there was no reason he couldn’t care for his wife, show her concern and take away some of her burden. There was no reason she couldn’t find a modicum of happiness.
She touched the collar of his coat, smoothing it down. His breathing hitched in his throat, and he stared at her hands. Her fingers were bare, her wedding ring still with Mr. Booker for sizing, and he made a note to check on the progress. He might even buy a wedding ring for himself. Though he couldn’t wear any sort of jewelry while working, there was no reason he
shouldn’t have something for special occasions.
First, though, he must find a way to keep his wife busy, without letting her do anything that would put her at risk.
His gaze darted around the kitchen area, and he spotted a box with bits of hay poking through the slats. “You can rinse and put away the dishes. But only on the low shelves. No balancing on chairs.”
“That task will barely take me an hour.” She thrust out her chin. “What will I do after the dishes are finished?”
“I’ll think of something equally safe.”
He unfurled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped the dirt from her forehead. “Be good, or I’ll send you back to the Cattleman Hotel.”
“I’ll be good, Herr Werner.” She stepped back and saluted. “I promise.” Her hand dropped. “I’ll go mad if I’m stuck in that room another day.”
Colton stilled. Her teasing salute, an echo of the war, had not even caused a twinge of sadness. With Beatrix, he was able to think of the future, and leave the past where it belonged—in the past. Her presence was a soothing balm.
If only he could be the man she thought him to be. Every time he touched happiness, the petals crumbled beneath his fingertips. He couldn’t do that to Beatrix. He mustn’t be diverted by the vulnerability in her deep brown eyes. She was stronger than any of them. She could build her own happiness—as long as he didn’t let himself get too close.
“We’re almost finished,” he said. “Soon we can both relax.”
Noises sounded from the front parlor, and they glanced around.
“The Schuyler boys,” Colton said with a grimace. “They’ve got your trunk and that deceptively heavy musical instrument of yours.”
“My armonica!” she exclaimed. “I’d better check on the placement. It mustn’t sit too near the window or the sun will bleach the wood.”
“How did you manage to move that awkward, heavy piece all the way from Austria?”
“With tenacity and determination and several bribes,” she declared. “I had to pay extra every time I changed trains.”
“You’re very fond of that instrument,” he said, his gaze thoughtful.
There was nothing in his life that couldn’t be replaced. Nothing he’d bribe people to allow him to deliver across oceans.
Her expression grew wistful. “It’s the only thing I have left that truly reminds me of home.”
The reminder struck him with a jolt. Home. This wasn’t her home. Austria was her home. There were times when he felt her presence here was as elusive as the morning mist. That he’d wake one morning and find she’d disappeared with the rising warmth of the sun.
She paused in the doorway, her gaze fixed on the arrival of her precious instrument. Her profile was strong, with a straight nose and a prominent cheekbone teased by a stray curl.
Colton followed her exit with an uncharacteristic touch of melancholy. He was curious about the instrument, and anxious to hear her play. She had little else to her name. During her recuperation at the Cattleman Hotel, he’d become quite familiar with her three serviceable dresses. She owned a wooden brush and comb, as well. She’d whittled her belongings down to the meager dregs to save her instrument.
He turned away from the parlor and set about emptying the last crate.
He’d speak with her again about visiting Hannah’s dress shop. Considering her stubborn refusal on the larger house, she was obviously reluctant to spend money. Or at least to spend his money. Though not a wealthy man by any means, he was plenty comfortable. A few dresses wouldn’t set him back. Would they make her happy? Did she even care about nice clothes? She’d seemed to like that dress she’d borrowed from Leah, but aside from that, he couldn’t be sure.
He knew so little about Beatrix beyond the superficial. They’d talked, certainly they’d talked, though they’d each carefully avoided any mention of their pasts. She’d been raised in Austria, and she had family. Occasionally she’d let a name slip. She had sisters for certain, and at least her father was alive, though she’d never mentioned her mother. In the beginning he’d been content with the shallow nature of their relationship.
Colton tipped his head and pictured the sleeping infant in his room on the second floor. She’d survived her journey and delivered the baby boy with only the comfort of strangers.
She deserved more than him and the little he had to offer. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. She had a deep well of courage that she carried effortlessly and drew upon when the circumstances warranted.
Beside her he was but a shadow. Undeserving.
Voices sounded from the parlor, and something in their tone had him pausing. He stepped nearer the door and caught the words spoken by the Schuyler boys in German.
“I don’t have to take orders from you,” Dirk spoke.
“Ja,” his brother Eric replied. “We’ve heard about you. You’re a—”
His next word sent a red haze over Colton’s vision. His jaw tensed, and he charged into the parlor. Eric caught his angry gaze and assumed an expression of false innocence.
Beatrix glanced between the two of them and splayed her hands. “It was nothing.”
Eric swaggered forward and spoke to his brother in German. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t understand. She certainly won’t tell him.”
“I understand.” Colton surprised the boy by speaking their native tongue. “You will apologize this instant, and then you will leave this house.”
“My father gives you much business.” Eric smirked. “You misunderstood what I said. Didn’t he?” the boy directed his question toward Beatrix.
She gave a hesitant nod.
“No apology? Fine then. Out.” Bigger and stronger, Colton snatched the boy by the scruff of his shirt and frog-walked him to the front entrance. Keeping his anger in check, he kicked open the door and shoved Eric onto the front porch. “Tell your father why we’ll no longer be doing business.”
Less arrogant than his brother, Dirk meekly scuttled past Colton and onto the porch. Eric stumbled down the stairs and turned with a heavy scowl. The boys were too used to getting their own way. Because of their father’s wealth and power, folks in town turned a blind eye to their misbehavior. Colton had no such compunction. As the only blacksmith in town, Colton needed Mr. Schuyler less than the man needed him.
Eric stumbled backward down the front stairs, his fist raised. “My father will hear of this treatment.”
“Come back when you’re ready to be a man and fight your own battles, son.”
Colton slammed the door, rattling the glass panes. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The boy was a child. A child who’d been given too little supervision over his actions.
He turned and discovered Beatrix staring at him, her face ashen, her hands wringing.
“Don’t be angry with them,” she pleaded. “You don’t understand. There was war in Austria, like there was war in America. They are German. They won. They don’t have respect for the Austrians anymore.”
“I understand war,” Colton bit out through gritted teeth. “I understand victors and vanquished. I will not let a boy insult my wife under my roof. They believe they are invincible. Young men aren’t invincible. Their actions are nothing but a match on dry tinder.”
The truth tore through him like a bullet. Foolish boys playing with fire.
His anger strangled in his throat.
The Schuyler boys were no different than he and Joseph had been all those years ago.
Chapter Eight
Alarmed by the angry grimace distorting her husband’s face, Beatrix took a hesitant step forward and reached out one hand.
The Schuyler boys were bullies, and she’d grown a thick skin against bullies of late. Their words had bothered her considerably less than the thought that they had upset her
husband—and forced him to end a profitable business relationship.
“You mustn’t lose Mr. Schuyler’s business.”
She took another step closer, placing her hand on the tense muscles of Colton’s forearm.
The tendons beneath her fingertips flexed.
“Eric is a selfish child,” he said, “who knows nothing of life.”
Colton made a frustrated movement of his hand. Conditioned from years of living with her father, Beatrix flinched instinctively and flung up her arms, shielding her face. Blood roared in her ears. His breath hissed, and she braced for a blow.
A moment passed, and the expected pain never materialized. Heart hammering, she forced the air from her lungs and slowly lowered her arms a notch. Colton stared at her, a blank look on his face.
“Beatrix,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “Did you think...did you think I might hit you?”
He reached for her, but his movement was too sudden, too unexpected. She stumbled back and bumped into the wall, her body quivering in anticipation of a blow.
She cowered away, loathing her own weakness. “Don’t use your fists.”
He was so much larger than her father. He’d break her bones.
Her whole body quaked, and the more she tried to hold herself in check, the more she trembled. Except nothing happened. He’d gone ominously still, and his unpredictability frightened her more than his anger. She forced open her eyes, and the room reeled.
The pulse in his temple throbbed violently. “I would never strike you. I would never harm you. Please, understand that.”
Her head buzzed with tension. “I’m sorry.”
She was bone tired, grimy and sticky with sweat. She didn’t know what else to say. She couldn’t tell if he was sincere, or if he was luring her into a false sense of security.
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