Beverly Jenkins (25 page)

As she unfolded a few more gowns and held them up, she admitted, yes, his seeming lack of interest hurt; no woman wanted to go through life with a husband intent upon ignoring her existence. But she’d convinced herself the emptiness didn’t matter. This marriage would be strictly a means to an end. Without his name she stood very little chance of teaching anywhere ever again. They were living in the 1880s; society dictated the standards, and, if one didn’t conform, one found herself married to a pony soldier! No one cared that she truly enjoyed opening the world to eager young children—she’d made love to a man not her husband, and small minds would continue to harp on the indiscretion until she went to her grave.

At the bottom of the trunk, Cara found numerous pairs of erotic pantalets. Scandalized, she stuffed them back in quickly, then turned her
mind again to the problems of her marriage. Supposedly this marriage would silence some of the gossip, but if not, that didn’t matter to Cara, either. Only returning to her students mattered. She’d marry the devil himself if she could continue teaching.

Cara heard his footfall on the porch outside and hastily began to refold the gifts, hoping to repack them before he entered.

Too late.

He carried a sack of potatoes in his arms and set it by the door. “What’s in the trunks?”

Cara answered truthfully, “Linen.”

He came to stand over her, looming like a mountain. She didn’t like having to look up at him. It spoke too much of what he perceived as their relative roles.

“What else?”

“Nothing. Female clothing. You wouldn’t be interested.”

“Open it.”

The hard set of his unshaven jaw told Cara he was bent on making this an issue. Irritated, she flipped up the trunk’s lid and picked up the gown folded on top.

Chase blanched at the beauty of the transparent cream-colored gown she held up for his inspection. The straps were as thin as moonbeams; fragile, delicate pieces of rolled silk designed to slide off a woman’s bare shoulders like a caress. The straps led his mesmerized gaze down to the scalloped edges of a scandalously low-cut bodice held together by tiny white ribbons. Below the ribbons, the flowing, floor-length gown had no seam. The wearer would have to do nothing more than walk across a room to give her lover a teasing view of the bareness within.

The arousing mental images brought his manhood slowly to life, a reaction he could not control. And because he could not, anger tightened his jaw. “You’re right,” he said finally. “I’m not interested.”

He turned and walked back out the door, slamming it for punctuation.

At his abrupt departure, Cara smiled sarcastically as she folded the gown and placed it back in the trunk. He didn’t fool her at all. She’d seen his jaw tighten and his eyes go dark when she held up Sophie’s creation. The jaw coupled with the prominent bulge below the waistline of the tight-fitting work pants told her quite plainly what he refused to say aloud; the gown aroused him. Cara was honest enough to admit he’d more than likely envisioned some other woman wearing the gown, but his reaction helped to salve the pain.

Outside, Chase stood in the cold, unforgiving wind of the December night and took a deep breath, willing his manhood to halt its breakneck galloping. In spite of everything, the desire to bed this treacherous little wife had him in knots. His vow to keep his hands off her had placed him in hell.

But he’d come out here to do a job, so, cursing himself, the woman inside, and the fates that had joined them together, he began unloading the sacks and crates stacked in the back of the board. They contained foodstuffs and supplies for the long winter ahead. The mercantile had received probably its last big shipment before the Valley closed down for the winter, and Chase, armed with six months’ pay, took full advantage. In addition to the food he’d returned with feed for the animals, lantern oil, and some new cooking pots. A number of the women in the Valley made scented soaps, also sold in the mercantile. He’s purchased
the last bar for Cara in what could only be termed a fit of weak-minded insanity. It rested now in his shirt pocket, wrapped in pretty silver paper.

Thinking about the soap gave rise to visions of Cara in the bath, sliding it slowly across her glistening wet skin, while he sat in a chair by the fire, watching from the darkness.

Chase angrily wrenched his mind away from the scene, cursing again. He couldn’t ever remember wanting a woman this much, so much he ached all day long. But he wouldn’t give in, he swore, violently snatching down another sack and adding it to the growing pile on the ground. He had only to remind himself of her selfish plans concerning his child, and all fiery thoughts of making love to her were doused by the storm of his fury.

It took him four trips to bring everything into the house. When he finally finished, he removed his coat and hung it on the peg beside the closed door. Being outside had given him the time to solidify his determination to resist the pull of passion.

Cara paid little attention to his mood. Instead, she concentrated on examining the things he’d brought back from town. They looked to be sound purchases: the potatoes weren’t rotten, the lantern oil smelled fresh not rancid, and the cooking pots were of good weight and free of dents. The quantity and quality of the goods admittedly surprised her. He seemed to be very experienced at determining the items needed to stock a household, something she would not have guessed.

She also uncovered crocks of pale sweet butter, rashers of cured bacon, coffee, and flour. There were jars of put-up vegetables and spiced fruit and jams.

She was startled to discover he was standing in the kitchen watching her. The dark eyes, cold as the winter plains, held no emotion, yet seemed to burn across the distance. “There’s stew on the stove,” she offered, trying to shake the nervousness suddenly trembling in her veins.

For a moment, it seemed as if he hadn’t heard, then came the words “Thank you.” He moved over to the stove, and she let out an unconsciously held breath.

Chase helped himself to the thick hot mix of dark broth, vegetables, and meat simmering in the kettle while she began putting the food and supplies away. This would be his first opportunity to taste her cooking and he’d no idea what to expect. He hesitated a moment trying to decide how much he should put on his plate. He stoically opted for a healthy portion because, after chasing around in the cold since dawn, he’d eat anything as long as it was hot.

To his surprise the stew was good—damn good. And the fat golden biscuits had to have come from heaven. His soft yet audible groan of delight drew her sharp attention.

“Something wrong?” she asked in the process of storing the new cook pots in the bottom of the kitchen’s big standing sideboard. She placed the last pot and stood, waiting for his answer.

“No, nothing’s wrong.”

She didn’t believe him. Her eyes strayed to the large bowl of stew set before him on the table. “I distinctly heard you groan. Is my cooking that bad?”

“No, your cooking’s fine. So fine, in fact—”

“You groaned.”

He nodded.

“I’m glad.” She went back to storing the supplies,
thinking to herself, so he liked her cooking? That was hardly enough to base a marriage upon.

Chase could see the crossness lining her face. Dammit, he’d paid her a compliment, but evidently all he’d succeeded in doing was ruffling her feathers. Refusing to waste any more time worrying over her and her moods, he went back to his meal of thick savory stew and the light-as-angle-wings biscuits.

But all the while he ate, he watched her as she moved about; drawn in spite of himself by the lines of her body in the nightgown and robe, the way she moved, the faint scent of her passage. The sensations evoked memories that threatened to slide past the gates of his resolve, but he refused to let them rise. She’d made a fool of him once; he would never give her the chance to betray him again.

In the days that followed, Cara and Chase moved through the house like ghosts, passing each other without a word. When verbal communication had to be employed, the conversation was kept as brief as possible; neither of them used two words when one would suffice.

She took care of the cooking, washing, and day-to-day tasks of keeping their silent home clean. He worked on reports, cared for the animals, drew maps for the army surveyors, and chopped wood from sunup to sundown.

They came together as a couple only during the evening meal. He sat and ate; she sat and ate. On this night in particular, Chase pushed aside his plate after stuffing himself with her chicken and dumplings. He wanted to groan, he felt so full, but he didn’t want her to know how much he’d enjoyed the meal, so he merely purred and hoped she wouldn’t hear it. Damn, she could cook!

She cleared the table while he watched her over the lighted tip of his after-dinner cigar. They’d been here nearly two weeks now. In that time she had not begged him for attention, never come to him for anything personal, or demonstrated in any way that she felt hurt by his pointed display of disinterest. In fact, she seemed quite content with the way things were going, a reaction he would not have guessed but should have anticipated, considering the woman in question. She’d probably never begged for anything in her life, especially not a man’s affections. He could not help but admire that backbone of hers. He’d challenged her to draw and so far she hadn’t blinked.

But what stood between them was much more substantial than a metaphorical gunfight. He still had not forgiven her for planning to deceive him about the child.

Chase tamped out the cigar on the stones fronting the grate, then threw the butt in the fire. “Saw Sophie today.”

“How is she?” Cara asked from the sink where she stood washing the dishes from dinner.

“She’s fine. Sends her love.”

Cara went back to her task, assuming that to be the whole of tonight’s conversation. She was wrong.

“She wants to give us a reception.”

“What kind of reception?”

“Marriage reception.”

Cara studied his expression for some clue as to how he felt about participating in such an event, but she found it unreadable. “What did you tell her?”

“That we’d come.”

Cara turned back to the sink, uncertain how she
felt about the invitation. “Did she say who she invited?”

“No, but I don’t think Sophie would invite anyone who would be cruel to you, Cara, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was.

Then he added, “The folks who turn up their noses now are probably the same ones who turned up their noses before, if you think about it.”

She decided he was right and agreed to go.

S
ophie held the reception for Chase and Cara on Christmas Day in her front room. It was well-attended and a great success. Cara and Chase received warm welcomes and a variety of gifts, ranging from preserves and canned vegetables to a beautiful snow-white bed covering, that the Three Spinsters must have been quilting for weeks. Cara cried.

More than a few folks came up to Cara and said she’d have their support if she wanted to start another school; evidently, neither the children nor their parents were pleased with Reverend Whitfield’s fire-and-brimstone approach to education, and the board had been unable to hire a replacement.

And Chase? Throughout the evening, he stayed at Cara’s side. He fetched punch for her, opened gifts with her, deflected some of the more snide comments, and even waltzed with her, to the delight of the true friends of theirs in attendance. He gave the gossips absolutely nothing to talk about, except perhaps how handsome he looked in his uniform. He played the role of an attentive, considerate husband to perfection.

On the cold buggy ride home through the snow, Cara thanked him.

“For what?” he asked.

“For making people think we have a normal marriage.”

“Like I said, purely selfish.”

“Meaning?” she asked, not sure if she really wanted him to reply.

“Meaning that I’m getting pretty tired of people coming up and asking after you in such a way you’d think I’m keeping you chained in the cellar.”

“You haven’t exactly been polite since you’ve been back,” she pointed out.

“And am I supposed to be? Sophie told me the cruel things people said about you the night you were dismissed. And Miles Sutton is lucky to be alive.”

Cara could see his angry face in the moonlight reflecting off the snow. “Sheriff Polk told me you—how’d he put it?—‘beat the hell out of Miles Sutton.’ ”

“I take care of my own.”

Cara’s reactions flickered, just as it did every time he directly or indirectly claimed her as his own. “He also said that was the night the Lady burned to the ground. Did you do that, too?”

“That I didn’t do. Though I’d like to hang a medal on whoever did.”

“So would I,” Cara echoed.

Back at the house, Cara went inside, taking with her as much of the reception’s bounty as she could carry. After putting the team and buckboard in the barn, Chase would bring in the rest. Shivering from the cold, Cara was stoking the fire in the grate when he entered, stamping snow from his boots. His arms were filled with a crate loaded with gifts. She came to relieve him of his burden. “I’ll take that.”

He gave it over without protest and removed his boots, though like Cara he kept his coat on, waiting for the house to get warm. She went about the task of putting away their presents. “Did Asa say when he would deliver that tub?”

“Sometime in the next few days.”

“Wonderful. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to take a leisurely bath.”

The big tub was a gift from Asa and Sophie. Because of its size, it wouldn’t fit on the buggy with all the other items she and Chase brought home. Cara couldn’t wait for its arrival.

“I have something for you,” he told her.

Cara looked his way, surprised.

“Today is Christmas, so here, these are for you.”

Cara took the two wrapped items from him and stared.

“Well, they won’t open themselves,” he prompted.

“I . . . have something for you also.”