A Bargain For A Bride: Clean mail order bride romance (Montana Passion Book 1) (6 page)

“You’ll have to put up a fence,” he’d explained one day during their morning work of digging the holes for the posts that dotted the perimeter of his claim. “That’s not just sound advice for your farm, it’s required. You have to report so much in crops, plant a few different varieties, and fence your land. This here’s one of the easiest fences you could build, seeing as how you two are ladies. But you’ll need to order supplies, because you might not want to go splitting all the rails yourself.”

The ground was still frozen in the early January temperatures, and not as forgiving as in the spring. Still, the fence had to go up or he risked losing his claim. He’d no sooner said those words than the axe he’d been wielding bounced backward off the log he’d intended to split, knocking him in the forehead with such force that he fell backwards. Both women jumped up from their spots in a flash and were by his side almost as soon as he’d hit the ground.

Gretchen let out a slight scream at the sight of the blood that was already flooding across Pryor’s face, but Moira was in no mood for her maid’s delicate manner. She went to work pulling the bandana from where it stuck out of Pryor’s hip pocket, pushing against him to ease it out from beneath him then pressing it to the wound on his head.

“Pry! Are you all right?” she demanded in a concerned voice, lifting the cloth slightly before pressing against it again immediately to stop the blood that continued to flow freely from his torn skin. Beneath the pressure of her hand and the cloth, Pryor moaned in pain. “Aye, that’s a good sign, he hasn’t knocked himself completely stupid then.”

“My lady! What must we do?” her maid cried as Moira continued to hold the pressure on his head. The blood had already soaked through the thin, worn cloth and pooled near Moira’s wrist, but she continued to hold it in place.

“Run into the house and begin a pot of hot water. Find any spare cloth you can and cut it for wraps. Look about for a needle and thread in case the bleeding will not stop of its own accord. Go now, and hurry!” Moira peeked again as Gretchen took off, running for the cabin to do as she was bid. Pryor lifted a weak arm to try to push Moira’s hand away, but she held the cloth against his wound firmly, pushing his hand back down.

“Hold still, Pry, you’ve hurt yourself. It’s fairly deep, so hold until it bleeds less.” She reached a lock of his dark hair out of the way, dizzying slightly when her hand came away covered in more blood.

It took ages for Gretchen to return to say that the water and bandages were ready. She’d managed to find a needle and a spool of coarse thread but had to rummage through Pryor’s stash of supplies to do so, and immediately apologized.

“I’m sorry to say but there’s naught to be done but that I’ll have to stitch him. I’d best not do it here though, where there’s muck and mud all ‘round us,” Moira explained. Gretchen turned a fair shade of green at the suggestion, telling Moira all she needed to know about who was going to go about doing the unpleasant task. “I’m just not sure we can both hold him down for it. He’ll have to wake slightly so we can tell him what we’re doing to his poor head!”

“I found this, my lady,” Gretchen said, holding out a dusty bottle of homemade liquor. It was so old, the handwriting on the label was faded, and a layer of thick grime covered it.

“Oh, Gretchen, you’re brilliant! That will be a tremendous help, thank you. We’ll just have to convince him to drink it up before we go needling him.”

“I was thinking to cleanse the wound, ma’am,” the maid answered with a light laugh. Moira joined her.

“I think we’re both right! He’ll need some in the wound to clean it out and prevent infection, but I dare say the stitching will go far easier on him if he finishes the rest of it! I do like the fact that there’s so much whisky left in a bottle so old. It says he’s not a drinking man, and Lord above knows there are plenty of those to be had here on earth.”

“How will we get him to the house then?”

“Hmmm… I know. Hold this in place, I’ll return shortly.” Moira passed off the duty of holding pressure on the wound to her maid and ran to the barn, only to return with a wooden wheelbarrow that had seen better days. Between the two of them, they managed to roll Pryor into it, only to have the bleeding start fresh when he landed face down with his head pitched forward out of the small cart. Moira grabbed the cloth and held fast again while helping Gretchen shove the now heavy cart across the frozen ground and toward the cabin.

The porch steps proved to be another obstacle, but, by hoisting him between them across their shoulders, they were able to get him inside before dropping him on the bed. Moira took up a fresh strip of cloth and unworked his boots while Gretchen gathered everything they would need to staunch the bleeding.

“Are we ready, do you suppose?” Moira asked, holding the bottle of liquor in front of her like an offending draught of poison. Gretchen nodded, and Moira held the bottle to Pryor’s slack mouth, urging him to drink. What didn’t run into his mouth pooled in the rough fabric of his shirt, but at least he became conscious enough to swallow and cringe at the offending taste.

Moira pulled back the bandage and poured a small stream of the clear amber liquid into the gash on his head, closing her eyes briefly at the jagged edges of skin and what she could have sworn was bone showing clearly beneath it. She steeled herself, and bade Gretchen hold the pressure while she threaded the needle.

“Should we not give the liquor more time to work? ‘Twill hurt him much, will it not?” she asked, but Moira shook her head.

“Tis only whisky and not a magic potion, I’m afraid. It will only take the edge off the pain. Nothing short of another blow to the head would make him not feel it, and I for one am not up to bashing him in the skull! Would that I had taken to the drink; it will take strength enough to stomach piercing his skin to save him.”

“My lady, I think we’d best hurry. Look, he’s gone white as a sheet.”

Moira looked at his face and was shaken by the peacefulness in his expression, the pale look of someone who could easily slip into the grave. It strengthened her resolve for the unpleasant task of hurting him even more. She pinned his outstretched arm beneath her knee and spoke loudly in his ear.

“Pryor, do you hear me? I’m sorry, but we have to stitch. Please, I beg of you, please try to be still.” She nodded to Gretchen, who pinned his other arm before sliding her hand on top of his scalp to hold his hair back, giving Moira access to the ugly wound. Moira took a deep breath and held it, willing herself not to give way to a weak stomach at a time like this. She forced herself to look closely at the gash, lining up her stitches. She pushed the end of the needle through the first layer of skin and bade herself ignore the brief cry of pain from her poor patient.

When they’d finished tending to Pryor, Moira and Gretchen cleaned up the mess of their surgery efforts and sat together at the table in the kitchen, neither one speaking much. The reality of the situation was far too great to think about. What if they’d been unable to stop the bleeding, and found themselves stranded here, unable to even find their way back to the nearest town? What if they’d never come at all, and this injury had happened when Pryor was simply out working on his land? The gravity of it all weighed on them.

"I don’t know what we’re to do,” Moira finally whispered, looking down at her hands as though she could still see traces of Pryor’s blood in the creases. Gretchen got up and came to her, standing behind her mistress and comforting her in her gentle hug. “What if we could not have saved him, what if he had died? This is all too real, Gretchen. This is not a game for children, this playing at adventure. This… makes me wonder if we would not have fared better back in Ireland.”

“My lady, no. Do naw say such a thing! You, married to that terrible man? You think that would be better than having your freedom?”

“At least there, I would know what to do if a man’s life was in danger.”

“But mistress, you did know what to do! You took care of him, just as your mother taught you by her knee. You’re only now feeling the fear that you pushed down when you needed to be strong, that’s all.”

“I hope you’re right, dear. But this has made me see Montana with new eyes. And Pryor…”

“Yes, my lady? What of him?” Gretchen asked, puzzled at the silence that Moira’s sentence left hanging between them.

“Oh, no, that’s all.”

“If you’ll pardon my saying so…” the maid began, but she, too, let her sentence hang unfinished for the space of a moment.

“Yes, Gretchen? You were going to say?” The maid shook her head, thinking better of her boldness. “Well, don’t stop on my account! You’ve been doing nothing more than begging my pardon ever since we left Brennan!” Only instead of a fierce glare from the lady, Gretchen was relieved to see a hint of humor touching Moira’s eyes, even if she wasn’t yet ready to smile after the day they’d endured.

“I was only going to say, ma’am… you seemed… worried. For Mr. MacAteer, I mean.” Gretchen immediately pressed her lips together, willing herself to keep quiet.

“Why, of course I was worried. He could have bled to death right before our eyes! It was… frightening, to say the very least!”

“I meant to say, it seemed… more.”

“More?” Moira looked up at Gretchen with a confused look. Her maid nodded fervently, still pressing her mouth closed. “Pray, explain yourself?”

“You just seemed… overly concerned, that is all.”

“Of course I was! I’ve already said that an accident to Mr. MacAteer could have been disastrous for all three of us, not the least of which is because he could have died!”

“I know, you’re right, forget I spoke.” Gretchen turned to wash out the dishes and cloths they’d used to work on Pryor, smiling to herself when her back was turned to her mistress. She knew what she’d seen, and it warmed her heart. Moira had been afraid of losing Pryor, and not only for the reasons she voiced aloud.

“Oh, no, you don’t, you’re in the bed today!” Moira called out from the kitchen table where she sat, already ready for the workday ahead of her, eating a meager breakfast while Gretchen prepared heartier fare—recuperative food, at that—for their patient. “I will handle your chores, just tell me what to do!”

Pryor eyed her suspiciously, not certain whether or not this was a joke they were playing on him, or if he was still experiencing a concussion from his slip up the day before. It could just as well have been sleep deprivation that had his mind playing tricks on him, he reasoned, as they’d taken turns waking him during the night to see that his head injury wasn’t worse.

“Oh, you will, your highness? You’re going to shovel out the animals’ stalls, do the milking, and put up six new fence posts before dinner time? I’d like to see that!” he scoffed, his usual quiet nature replaced by the irritability brought on by the pounding in his head and the itch of the woman’s needlework.

“I can guarantee the milking and the shoveling, as unpleasant as that sounds. The fence may have to wait until you’re back on your feet. But surely it’s been this long, a few more days won’t be your ruination. Back to bed with you then, and Gretchen will bring in your breakfast shortly. Go! Go!”

Moira shuttled him back into the room, but saw a light smattering of blood on the sheets that alarmed her. She grabbed up the lamp from the kitchen table and returned with it held high, leaning closer to inspect the bloody mark and then the stitches in Pryor’s head.

“Oh, thank goodness, ‘tis only from your shirt!” she said with a relieved smile. “I am sorry for that, but we left you in your soiled clothes and it has stained your bedding. We’ll be sure to wash it fresh today. We didn’t want to move you any more than we had to; heaven knows we’d hurt you plenty during the stitching. Here, change into your nightshirt and hand out your work shirt. We’ll be sure to wash it, too. Gretchen is a wonder at the laundry, I promise. And we won’t look at you until it’s dry and returned to your person!”

Moira was grateful for the early hour and the lack of sunlight so Pryor couldn’t see the bright red blush on her cheeks. Here she stood, openly discussing undressing a man, one she’d only known for a matter of a day or two. To his credit, Pryor seemed equally flustered at the conversation, but reached to take the nightshirt as he was told. She ducked out the door and closed it firmly behind her, letting it shut with more force than necessary to secure the man who would soon be nude behind the solid oak door.

“My lady? Are you feeling well?” Gretchen asked, rushing to her and pressing her hand to Moira’s pink cheek, made all the more prominent by her ordinarily creamy white complexion.

“Oh, yes, but I fear I may have just made a brazen fool of myself! I wasn’t thinking, and I told him to take off his clothes!” Moira said with a shocked laugh. Gretchen stared at her with wide eyes, nearly dropping the tin of biscuits she’d taken from the Dutch oven.

“Mistress?”

“Oh, no, I don’t mean it that way, don’t be daft! I meant I told him to change his clothes and you or I would wash the blood from his shirt!” The young women dissolved in a fit of surprised giggles, causing Pryor to laugh quietly to himself behind the closed door, enjoying their happy sound more than he thought he would.

It had been a lonely three years for Pryor, years that had given him nothing but time to think. He occupied his days with work, providing him with a well-built and comfortable house, a small herd of five head of cattle, a secure pen where he kept a modest number of pigs, and two horses to pull his wagon and plow. All told, his hard work had allowed him to bring in three years’ worth of steady, comfortable wheat and corn harvests, save what had been lost each year to locusts and storms.

What Pryor didn’t set aside from his harvests for seed and for his own sustenance had been sold each season, providing him with enough funds to outfit his land with a sturdy barn, a solid plow, and other tools he would need to survive during the years that wouldn’t be so kind on the frontier. He’d built a smokehouse to cure meats and a strong room above it to store his food for the winter months when game would be scarce, then spent the spring months when the ground was soft digging a root cellar to store vegetables from the garden beside the barn. He’d even had time and resources to build a strong, high fenced-in pasture to turn his animals out for fresh air without fear that he’d lose his livestock to bears or panthers, both of which were plentiful in the region.

He was a man who’d been greatly blessed in his years on his claim, and he was painfully aware that all he’d built with his own two hands and intelligence could be taken away in an instant. A storm that leveled his property, a swarm of pests that decimated his crop and left him broke at year’s end, or even an illness or injury that prevented him from working would destroy everything he’d worked for.

And a day of rest for something as silly as a cut to the forehead wouldn’t be enough to put him to bed, not when there were chores to done and a fence line to finish before the deadline. Homesteaders only had a set amount of time to finish their obligations on their claims, and it was only a matter of months before his date came due. Pryor had had the foresight to begin his fence at the farthest points from his house and work his way home, meaning these last few acres left to be secured were nearby. He’d originally done it to keep any future neighbors from “accidentally” absorbing his property into their own, but now it meant that he no longer had a day’s ride to go work on his fence. The months of riding to fence work, spending weeks at a time sleeping on the bare ground in the unprotected wide open land, were months he couldn’t plant or grow his livestock because he wouldn’t be near enough to tend to them.

“I’m ready to get to work,” Pryor announced, emerging from the bedroom with his clean nightshirt tucked into his denim overalls. Both ladies stared in horror for a second before remembering their manners and turning away. “What? I made this shirt from almost identical cloth as the work shirt you’re holding. Why is one acceptable for ladies’ eyes, and the other scandalous? It’s just as decent, now come on, we have work to do.”

“You’re right, Pry,” Moira said, forcing her voice to remain steady in the presence of a man in his night clothes. “There’s work to be done, and lessons to be learned about working my claim. But first, you have to have a good meal, and then, you have to agree to not overexert yourself today. There’s no better way to learn than by doing, and I ask that you sit yourself beside us and instruct us in your chores. I don’t want to have to repeat my embroidery when you snap the threads holding your head together!”

Pryor laughed, instinctively touching the bandage tied around his head. “Believe me, I don’t want any more of your stitching, either, not that I’m not grateful to you for doing it. I never thanked you for having the steely gumption to bring me in the house and fix me up, by the way. So, thank you… thank you both.”

“You’re quite welcome, although I truly hope never to have to do that again,” Moira answered. Behind her, Gretchen nodded eagerly, the memory of the incident obviously paining her.

They finished their food in relative silence, other than a few questions from Pryor about how the food had been cooked, making mental notes to remember how to mix ingredients and add flavorings. Gretchen turned the talk to the need for Pryor to rend some of the fat for cooking and baking the next time he slaughtered a pig, which turned the talk to a lively conversation of their favorite childhood foods. Pryor was surprised to know that many of Moira’s and Gretchen’s fond memories of their favorite foods from Brennan were meals Pryor had had at his grandmother’s own table.

“She was from Cork,” he explained with a happy expression, remembering Christmases in his grandparents’ cabin in Ohio. He wore an almost dreamy look as he remembered the holidays filled with family members and the mixture of Irish and English on his mother’s side, and French and English from his father’s relatives.

“So how did you come to be here if all of your family are far away?” Moira asked, genuinely interested in knowing what would make a man move away from home and live an isolated, solitary existence.

“I think I’ve asked you the same thing,” he said with a rueful grin.

“And I believe I’ve answered you!” she retorted playfully. “So now it is your turn. Why come all this way and live the life of a monk?”

Pryor shrugged. “Just looking for adventure, I suppose. With my family long gone—I lost my parents to influenza, and my sisters are married and living far away—there was nothing keeping me there. When I found the notices posted offering land to all comers, I decided it was time to see this frontier that so many people were talking about.”

Moira smiled and was about to open her mouth to respond when she looked around and saw that Gretchen wasn’t in sight. She finally spotted the maid in the bedroom, removing the blood-stained linens for the washing. Gretchen looked up, as if she sensed her mistress watching her, and gave Moira a knowing look. She grinned with delight and cocked her head in Pryor’s direction.

That little sneak! Leaving the room so the two of us could talk! Has she forgotten why we’re in this barren territory in the first place?
Moira thought, seething only a little at her maid’s innocent view of romance.
Oh, Gretchen, my dear, if only it was as simple as you make it seem
.

Moira was now, for the first time in her life, a woman of property. All that she’d endured to get here, nay, all that they’d endured together, would be for nothing if Moira married. Her husband would control everything, even here in America, this famed land of opportunity. And she’d hadn’t come all this way to see that happen.

The three of them headed out, Pryor and Moira to tend to the animals and work on the fence, and Gretchen to the creek some half mile away to do the washing, despite the cold air and the sure to be frozen water. She gathered a basket of clothes and kitchen rags and set out, following the direction Pryor pointed.

“Is it safe?” Moira asked, staring fearfully after her maid. “There are no dangers out here? No wild animals? No men who would do her harm?”

“There shouldn’t be any animals at this time of day, least ways not the ones what would be big enough to hurt a full-grown girl. As for men? They’d be awfully foolish to come onto another man’s property, and the creek is a full fifty acres into my land.”

Moira watched after Gretchen, finally turning away reluctantly and following Pryor to the barn. True to his word, he let Moira tend to the animals while he kept a respectful distance, only chuckling to himself at her mistakes and outright blunders once or twice. His horse was hesitant about this strange woman on the property, but he was quickly won over when Moira produced a carrot from her pocket, pinched from Pryor’s root cellar for the very purpose of winning over a strange horse.

“They were my horse’s favorite,” she explained, turning to speak to Pryor over her shoulder and laughing out loud when the horse took advantage of her distraction to nose her pocket for another carrot.

“Did you ride much back in Ireland?” he asked, reaching out to pet the horse’s flank while Moira pressed her cheek lovingly to the soft velvet of its chestnut brown nose.

“Oh, aye, nearly every day. Father would stage elaborate fox hunts for his associates and we would sometimes be gone all day. It was wonderful, not the hunting part so much, but the riding out of doors and the feeling of flying as my horse galloped through the hills. Of course, there is not much for a high born lady to do out of doors except ride her horse. We’re far too delicate in our natures for anything more demanding,” she replied sarcastically, pressing a hand to her heart and fluttering her eyelashes.

Pryor laughed, but even he could hear the truth that Moira hadn’t spoken aloud: this freedom to make choices that she’d spoken of wasn’t only about avoiding a marriage. It was about casting off the expectations society placed on her, and unlocking herself from the invisible chains that had held her throughout her entire life. He was surprised to find there was an unexpected need in him to help her find that freedom, no matter what it cost him.