Big Sky Rancher (7 page)

“How many weddings have you attended?” Jennifer asked. “And where on earth did they find enough brides to go around?”

“Well now, that does present a problem sometimes, I'll grant you that,” Lucas drawled, sitting on a kitchen chair and stretching his long legs across the floor. “Most of the women coming into town are from back East, about like you. But, I'll have to say that most of them didn't cheat on their applications, lying about their accomplishments before they made the trip.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

He tilted an eyebrow at her. “You said you could cook and clean and sew. You lied.”

“I didn't lie,” she told him quietly. “The man who filled out the paperwork lied, and I didn't realize it until I saw a copy of the letter. And that was after he'd already mailed it to you. You and half a dozen other men who were looking for a wife.”

“But I was the lucky son of a pup who got you,” Lucas said, his tone firm.

“Lucky? Are you being sarcastic again?”

“Me?” he asked, faking astonishment. “You think
I'd
be sarcastic?”

“Maybe not. Mean and nasty suit you better. And vindictive and hateful, now that I think of it.”

“Mean and hateful wouldn't have left you alone last night, lady. You'd have been a real, bona fide wife this morning if I were mean and nasty. And if you don't watch your step, I can fix that in a hurry.”

“Lucas O'Reilly.” Mrs. Bronson waved a saucepan at him, her eyes wide with shock. “Don't you dare threaten this girl thataway. She's had a rough time of it today, and most of it is your fault. She didn't ask for—”

“She asked for exactly what she got,” Lucas said. “She came here under false pretenses and married me with no intention of fulfilling her part of the bargain.”

Jennifer stepped in front of him as he sprawled in his chair, glaring down into his face. “That's where you're wrong, mister. I'm willing to learn how to keep house and cook and even sew on your missing buttons. I thought that was why you brought Ida here. She's willing to help me learn and I'm willing to take lessons. What more do you want?”

He rose and she stepped back. Her retreat was halted by his hands on her waist. “I'll give you two weeks to make a dent in this mess,” he told her, “and then I'll let you know how you stack up as a wife.”

“Well, it's taken you a lot longer than two weeks to
make
this mess,” she said, spouting venom with each word. “And I don't need even that long to make up my mind about you.”

“You've already made that plain enough.” He grinned down at her and she felt suddenly shorter and smaller than ever before in her life. For a moment she wondered at her own bravery at standing up to this man. He was a veritable giant among men, and he had the right to use her in any way he pleased.

And she was, giving him what-for as if she hadn't a qualm in the world as to her well-being.

His gaze softened for a moment and she could not look away from the midnight-blue eyes that seemed to see deep within her. Her voice was a whisper as she spoke his name. “Lucas. Please give me a chance. I've not been a success at much of anything in my life. I need to know if I can do this. Without any time limit, or high expectations on your part. I know I said I wanted to go back East, but if you'll give me a reasonable chance to be a wife to you, I'll try. And if I fail, you can ship me off.”

He nodded and this time his smile was warm, almost admiring. In fact, a woman could lose herself in those blue eyes, could put up with almost anything if those lips curved in such a way with regularity. He looked almost like the man she'd hoped to wed, the tall stranger she'd dreamed about all the way from New York to the wilds of Montana.

A man of honor, dignity and even a bit of wealth. Forget the dignity. Her honest heart could not use that word, not in connection with Lucas O'Reilly. Maybe the honor part was possible, should he give her the chance she'd asked for. And then he spoke and she heard the words of her future, a sentence that would last for years to come.

“You're my wife, Jennifer. I don't take vows and then turn my back on them. I'm a fair man, and I'll give you what time you need. I expect you to learn what you need to know in order to run this house, and I don't want Mrs. Bronson doing all the work. I hope we've got that straight.”

“Yes, of course,” she muttered, looking down at the bandages that already showed signs of dirt from the cellar and dish water from the sink. His gaze followed hers.

“You need to have that bandage changed,” he said. “Sit down here and I'll tend to it.”

“I can look after her hand,” Mrs. Bronson offered from her spot at the stove.

“No, I'll do it,” Lucas said. “It was my fault she burned it, so I'll take care of it.”

“Your fault?” The woman looked at him with scorn. “What did you do to her?”

Lucas managed to look penitent. “I was yapping at her and she stumbled and fell. Caught herself on the stove with one hand.”

Mrs. Bronson shook her head, as if she could not imagine such a thing. “Go on then,” she said. “I guess you owe it to the woman to mend your fences.”

Jennifer watched them as they discussed her. Then, at Lucas's urging, she sat at the table. He brought out the box from the pantry again and opened it in front of her.

“Was your mother a healer?” she asked.

“They called her that,” he told her, sorting through the jars and rolls of bandages to find what he wanted. Again the pungent salve was opened and Lucas bent over her hand to untie the bandage he'd put in place. His fingers were big, but gentle and Jennifer bit her lip as she anticipated the pain of the bandage being pulled from the burns.

“Give me a wet cloth,” Lucas said to Mrs. Bronson. “Let's soak this a little.”

The warm cloth was sopping with water, but Jennifer made no complaint. The bandage soaked for several minutes and then Lucas lifted it, edging it off with care. Beneath it, the wounds were seeping, the blisters leaking fluid and he frowned.

“Come take a look,” he said to Mrs. Bronson. “Does this seem to be healing at all to you?”

“Kinda early to tell,” she said after bending close to examine Jennifer's hand. “But I'd say it looks clean and a little more of that salve should do the trick.” She bent lower. “Smells like the stuff I brought with me. My mama called it ‘husk.'”

Lucas seemed satisfied with her opinion and fashioned another pad from the roll of bandages, spread salve on its surface and then applied it to Jennifer's hand. Tying it in place with a long strip of fabric, he made a knot on the back of her hand, careful not to put pressure on her palm.

“Let's make that three or four weeks,” he murmured. “I reckon it'll take you that long to be able to use your hand.”

“You'd be surprised what I can do with my left hand,” she said. “You said two weeks to start with, and two weeks it is. I'm not asking for any favors, Mr. O'Reilly.”

“Maybe not, Mrs. O'Reilly, but I may be asking a few of you, and I'd like to get things on a better footing between us.”
His words were soft, carrying only to her ears, and Jennifer looked up at him warily.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“I think you have a pretty good idea.” His eyes softened as they swept over her. “And if you haven't, I'll fill you in later on.”

 

T
HE SUPPER HOUR
went well, with Jennifer serving the food, setting the table and following instructions from Mrs. Bronson. There wasn't nearly as much mystery cloaking the cooking and serving as she'd thought. Once the woman began explaining as she went, Jennifer's mind stored all the instructions for future reference. Timing was everything, she decided.

“You're not washing dishes,” Mrs. Bronson told her after the meal was finished. “If you want to do something helpful, you can go and dust the parlor. Pick up all the knickknacks and dust them, one item at a time. Wipe them off good, and then run the cloth over the surface before you put things back in place.”

That seemed simple enough, Jennifer decided, realizing that it was exactly what she and her mother's housekeeper used to do on Saturday mornings back at home. She peered beneath the sink for a handy cloth and Ida found one for her. “Let me dampen it a bit,” she offered. “But just use the dry places on the rag for the wooden tabletops ans such. We'll use some beeswax on them later on. After you get done dusting, come back in here and I'll fix you up.”

The parlor held a large assortment of items that required dusting, it seemed, from pictures in heavy frames to small bits of porcelain formed into statues and tiny baskets. Someone had had a collection at one time or another, Jennifer decided, holding one of the figurines in the palm of her hand and in
specting the minute details. Painted to resemble a picnic basket, it held a facsimile of a checkered cloth, lovingly formed and painted, looking so real, she bent closer to be certain it wasn't fabric instead of porcelain.

“What are you looking at?” From the parlor door, Lucas spoke and she jerked, turning to him and dropping the basket. She watched in horror as it broke into three pieces. The carpet covered only the area in the middle of the room and she'd been standing near the front window, where the bare floor was unforgiving of her blunder.

“Oh, Lucas.” She was truly contrite, her voice trembling as she knelt to pick up the pieces. “I didn't mean to break it. I suspect it was important to you.” She looked up at him, aware of his silence, and his measuring look as he approached.

He lifted her to her feet, careful not to touch her bandaged hand, and then took the three bits of porcelain from her. “I think it can be mended,” he said. “I've got glue that should work.”

“Don't be angry with me.” She'd never thought to ask such a thing of anyone, instead taking the blame for her misdeeds without complaint.

“I'm not angry, Jennifer. I shouldn't have spoken from the doorway. I startled you.”

“I should have just dusted it and put it back instead of being so nosy about every little thing you have in here.”

“There's not much. Just some things of my mother's,” he said. “I had them sent to me after I settled here.” He looked around the room. “I kept some of the stuff she seemed to be fond of, and then put it in here. I guess I wanted it to seem like home to me.”

“What happened to her?”

“She's gone.” And that seemed to be all he would say on the subject.

“Can you really mend it?” Jennifer asked, reaching to touch the tiny fragments with her index finger.

“We'll sit down at the kitchen table and I'll see what I can do.”

“I'll finish up in here first,” she told him, picking up her cloth and approaching the big library table sitting in front of the window. “This just needs dusting off,” she told him, moving books to one side and shifting the lamp out of the way as she cleared the spots she would dust.

“This is too much for you to do,” he said after a moment of observing her. “You need two hands for this sort of a chore. I'll tell Mrs. Bronson.”

“No.” Her voice was firm. “Please don't. Just ask her for a cloth with beeswax on it for me. She doesn't want me to use this one on the wooden places.” She watched as he turned to leave the room and then she spoke again, her words halting him in his tracks.

“I want to learn, and the only way I can manage that is to do it myself. What I can't do, I'll ask for help with.”

He looked back at her. “Are you sure? I wasn't trying to be mean and hateful, you know.”

The words she'd spoken, the traits she'd accused him of possessing, seemed harsh as they left his lips. Jennifer shook her head. “I know you weren't. I was angry with you, and I spoke out of turn.”

“I'll get you the cloth from Ida and you can go on with your work, then,” he said. “I'll go on out and do the chores and then we'll see about this.” Looking down at the bits of porcelain he held, he waited until she nodded her acquiescence and then walked from the parlor, leaving her alone for a few moments while he talked to Ida.

Ida came into the parlor with a cloth in her hand. “I'll show you how to do it this time, girl. Next time you're on your own. All right?”

Jennifer nodded and watched as the furniture was polished, catching the scent of wax from the cloth, admiring the shining surfaces Mrs. Bronson left behind.

 

T
HE LIGHT
over the kitchen table was bright, shedding a harsh glow on Lucas and Jennifer. Mrs. Bronson had already stated her view of tables barren of covering, declaring that oilcloth was cheap and right handy at the general store, Luc had agreed to purchase a length of it as soon as the opportunity to go into town arose.

The tiny basket was the object of their attention and Lucas carefully fit the pieces together, murmuring beneath his breath.

“I was afraid maybe we'd missed some tiny bits on the floor, but it doesn't look like it, does it?”

Jennifer leaned closer, shaking her head. “No, I think I picked up all of it.”

His hands were deft as he glued and patched. She admired the length of his fingers, the clean, closely cut nails and the care he took to make whole the bit of froufrou she had damaged.

As he put the finished product on the table between them, he looked up at her with a grin. “Almost as good as new,” he said, and she nodded.

“Ready for bed?” he asked quietly, and again she nodded.

“Mrs. Bronson went up almost a half hour ago,” Lucas added, rising and circling the table to grasp Jennifer's elbow, helping her from her chair. As she reached for the porcelain basket, he halted her hand.

“Leave it, sweetheart. It'll dry by morning and you can put it back then.”

She only nodded once more and followed his lead as he led her from the kitchen. Leaving her in the doorway, he retraced his steps and blew out the lamp, then found his way to her in the dark.