Heartbreak Creek (32 page)

It was more of a crawl, she was so sore. “I’ll be a good mother, I believe,” she said as he pulled the covers over her. “When I think about how mad I got when the cougar went for Joe Bill . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought.

He straightened. “You’ve got a temper, that’s for sure.”

“I fear you’re right.” She took a deep breath, let it out, and felt some of the tension go with it. “I must have looked a sight, shrieking and jumping up and down and waving that bucket like a shrimper’s wife when the fleet comes in.”

“It worked. Challenge a cat, back away from a bear.”

“What are you doing?”

He hadn’t moved away from the bed but continued to stand there, looking down at her. He faced the moonlit window now and she could see he was smiling. “Waiting for you to quit babbling and go to sleep.”

She levered herself up onto her elbows. “You’re not coming to bed?”

“You’re sore, Ed. You need your rest.”

“You’re right. So quit nattering and get into bed so I can.”

He hesitated, then started unbuttoning his shirt. “I should get paid for this.”

“For getting in bed?”

“For putting on another show. But since you’re my wife, I’ll do it for free.” Flinging the shirt aside, he plopped onto the mattress, tugged off his boots, then stood and began loosening his trousers.

She watched, a feeling of possession moving through her, tempered by astonishment that this man was truly her husband.

The ropes under the mattress groaned with his weight as he slid in beside her. She waited for him to settle, then rolled toward him, tucking in tight against him, with her arm across his chest so he couldn’t get away. He smelled faintly of horses and camp smoke and sweat. Much better than roses, she thought, yawning.

He gently stroked her back. “Lieutenant Guthrie and the other troopers should be back soon. Then we’ll go home.”

“This is home.”

He hesitated, then kissed the top of her head. When he spoke again, something in his voice told her he was smiling. “To Heartbreak Creek, then. Tomorrow. Next day at the latest.”

“I’m glad. I miss Pru and the children. Although I hope we won’t be staying in town too long. I don’t want our teeth to turn brown.”

She smiled, anticipating the look on her sister’s face when she told her about the cougar. She should write a dime novel about it. Maybe make it into a theatrical production like that Buntline book,
Buffalo Bill, the King of Border Men.
She could star in it, herself. Have Joe Bill wear that nasty cougar skin he was so taken with.

She yawned.
Edwina Ladoux Brodie, Cougar Router.

Her eyes closed. Beneath her ear, the sure, steady beat of her husband’s heart lapped at her senses like water on stone as she drifted into deep, dreamless sleep.

 

 

When she awoke, Declan was gone and the sun was already high in a cloudless blue sky.

Yawning, she rolled over, then groaned at the pull of sore muscles and various scrapes and bruises. It all came back to her in a rush—the cougar, Joe Bill sprawled at her feet, her mad, shrieking charge with the upraised bucket. Now that the danger was past, she had to smile at the ridiculous picture she must have made, flinging poke salet greens from the swinging bucket and yelling at a huge snarling beast to “go away.”

But it had worked, hadn’t it? She’d held off the cougar until Declan had arrived to shoot the poor beast. Crazy-as-Cooter-Brown Edwina must have done something right.

Wincing, she sat up and swung her feet to the gritty floor. Voices drifted up to the window. Rising stiffly, she padded over and looked out to see that the other soldiers had returned and Lieutenant Guthrie was standing at the well with Declan. As she watched, the lieutenant scooped a handful of water from the bucket sitting on the rim, tasted it, then he nodded to Declan.

Ha,
Edwina smirked. Bunkum, indeed.

She dressed and went downstairs. Declan must have repaired the stove because a pot of coffee was simmering on top of it and a tin cup sat waiting on the table. After pouring a cup, she stepped out onto the kitchen stoop into a crisp, cloudless day.

“There she is!” Joe Bill left the group of soldiers gathered around the cook fire and ran toward her. Some of Guthrie’s men, Edwina surmised, since she didn’t recognize them as the troopers who had worked on the well.

“Tell them, Ed,” Joe Bill ordered, showing a hodgepodge of gaps, baby teeth, and permanent teeth in a big grin. “Tell them how you ran off a cougar with a bucket. They don’t believe me.”

Rout one cougar, Edwina thought, wryly, and suddenly she’s the hero of the hour. But she did have to allow that it was nice to have Joe Bill grin at her for a change, rather than send her his usual scowl or smirk.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she called, stepping off the stoop and crossing toward them. “How did it go at the Parker place?” Edwina had never met Jubal and Mildred Parker, but she hoped they had been given a proper burial. She wished she knew if they had kin somewhere that should be contacted. She would remind Declan to check when they returned to town.

“About what we expected, ma’am,” a sandy-haired soldier said. “We put markers over their graves so folks coming by would know whose place it was.”

“Tell them, Ed!”

“Yes, ma’am,” prodded a freckled soldier with a bucktoothed grin. “The boy here says you beat off a cougar bare-handed.”

And the legend grows.
“Actually I was armed with a bucket of greens.” Edwina sent a chiding smile toward her stepson. “Apparently cougars like poke salet no better than Joe Bill here.”

“Kept yelling ‘go away’ like it was some sort of barn kitty instead of a killer cougar,” Joe Bill elaborated. “Told you she was crazy.”

“And thank God for it,” Declan said, coming up behind her. “She’s a terror, that’s for sure. Morning, Ed,” he added, leaning down to kiss her cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Ready to dig through what’s left and see if there’s anything we can salvage?”

Edwina blinked up at him, taken aback by his casual demonstration of affection. Her father had never kissed her mother in front of others. Or probably in private, either, considering the state of their marriage. It was surprising, but nice, that Declan felt comfortable doing so.

She wondered how he would react if she threw herself at his neck like she wanted to. She smiled, picturing it. Maybe he’d scoop her up in those strong arms and whisk her away to—

“I guess we could start in the loft.”

“W-what?” Had he really said that? In front of everyone?

“See what you want to salvage from there, then check out the other rooms. What do you think?”

“Oh, yes, well . . . there might be a few things.” She tried to cover her distraction by pretending to consider his question. In truth, the main thing she wanted from the house was that marvelous log bed. Surely Declan could plane out the hatchet marks left by the Indians. And the tub would be nice to have. And maybe that cabinet where he kept his shaving mug. She thought of the way he’d looked standing there in that towel—all golden skin and rounded muscle and that arrow of dark hair pointing down—

“Unless you are too sore.”

Edwina almost choked.

Taking her hand, he studied the scratches on her palm, the bruise above her wrist. The frown on his brow told her he was thinking of practicalities rather than improprieties. “If so, we could stay another day if you want. Figure out what to take back when you’re feeling better.” He continued to stroke her hand, sending a tingle all the way up her arm.

Another day meant another night—away from the crowded rooms and constant interruptions—just the two of them in that big bed, in the dark . . . “I’m not that sore,” she said in a shaky voice.

His expression changed, shifted into something that sent blood pumping through her veins. When his gaze dropped to her breasts, she felt an instant reaction in places she had no name for.

How did he do that? With just a look and a smile he had her mind in chaos and her body in turmoil.
Mercy
, she was almost sweating. It was shocking and embarrassing and . . . well, a little bit nasty.

But if they did stay another day . . . and night . . .

“I’ll talk to Guthrie,” Declan said. “Tell him we’ll leave at first light tomorrow.”

Edwina might have been mistaken, but it felt like the big hand holding hers might be sweating, too.

It took most of the rest of the day to pick through what items and furniture remained, decide what could be repaired, then load everything onto the wagon.

He and Ed agreed on everything but the bed. She wanted to bring the whole thing. He just wanted the mattress, patiently explaining to his wife that the log frame was too bulky, and would have to be taken apart to get down the stairs, and he’d never be able to get out the chop marks, and it would be easier to get more logs and build another frame.

Besides, he had plans for that bed as soon as it got dark.

They compromised.

He got to make love to his wife in it that night, and in the morning he would take it apart and load it in the wagon.

Not his best negotiation, but Ed was satisfied. Repeatedly.

As was he.

It was midmorning when he closed and bolted the kitchen door for what he hoped would be only a temporary absence. He had no choice but to go. Yet, as they rolled down into the valley, the idea of leaving the ranch carried the bitter taste of failure.

Ranching had been his dream all his life. Even though he’d been raised on a Missouri bottom-land farm by a second-generation farmer, he’d always dreamed of working cattle rather than dirt.

He understood farming. With his size and strength, he probably would have been good at it. But there was something about cutting up good grassland with a plow blade that had always seemed wrong to him.

So, when he was sixteen and his brothers were old enough to help Pa, he’d headed west. For three years he’d worked at different outfits, learning the land, the climate, the ways of cattle. By the time he’d reached his twentieth birthday, he’d met Sally, married her, and staked his claim to sixty thousand mountainous acres that he named Highline Ranch.

Over the next few years he’d driven feral cattle up from Texas and across the plains. He’d fathered children, built a home, battled blizzards and drought, and been so busy chasing his dream across this long, grassy valley, he’d lost his wife somewhere along the way.

He wasn’t going to lose this one, too. Even if he had to leave the ranch and live in a ramshackle mining town until he was too old to wear a sheriff’s badge, he would do it to keep his family safe and his wife happy.

Although, he mused, studying Ed’s forlorn expression as she twisted on the seat to look back at the house, this wife seemed almost as sad as he did to be leaving their home.

“So what should we do for Brin’s birthday?” she asked after a while.

“Give her the presents we got her.”

She gave him a look from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “I mean should we invite other children to the house? Girls her own age? I could make a piñata and fill it with candy. Pru could make a cake. She makes the most delicious buttercream frosting. Do you think Brin would like that?”

“The cake part.”

“You don’t think she would like having a birthday gathering?”

“Not if she had to wear that dress you made for her.”

She muttered something he didn’t catch, which was probably for the best. They rode in silence for a time, then she said, “How did you break your little finger?”

“Joe Bill.”

“No! I’m shocked!”

He kindly overlooked the blatant sarcasm. “Actually it was my fault. I told him to close the door but forgot to remind him to wait until I got my hand out of it.” He smiled down at her. “I think you’ve won him over.”

She laughed—a soft, rippling sound that had a breathy quality, which made him think of other breathy sounds she made. In bed. In the dark.

“Rout one cougar and you’re a hero forever. I wonder what heroic feat I’ll have to perform to get R.D. to talk to me.”

“Good luck. R.D.’s not much of a talker. Never has been.”

“Like his father?”

“I talk plenty,” he defended. “In fact, since you got here, Thomas can hardly be around me, I talk so much.”

She laughed. “So many talents. Talking
and
peep shows. You should go on stage in New Orleans.”

“Want to pull over and see how talented I can be?”

“Hush. Besides, I already know how talented you are.”

“Not in daylight.”

“My, look at those orange flowers. Aren’t they lovely?”

I
t was late afternoon when they reached the confluence of Heartbreak Creek and the smaller, less foul Elderberry Creek, which ran behind the refurbished sheriff’s house.

Edwina was so relieved, she almost wept. She felt like she’d been run through a wringer in a bag of rocks, she was so sore from bouncing around on the hard seat all day.

Pulling the team to a stop, Declan waited for Lieutenant Guthrie to come alongside the wagon.

“You’re welcome to stay at our place, Lieutenant. The water’s better and we’ve got a woman who can cook like nothing you ever ate. Two of them,” he added quickly before Edwina could dredge up the energy to take offense.

“Appreciate that.” Leaning over, Guthrie doused a weed with a stream of brown tobacco juice, saw Edwina’s look of distaste, and muttered, “Excuse me, ma’am,” as he straightened. “But I’m giving the men an overnight furlough, and they’ll be wanting to cut the wolf loose.” He gave Declan a meaningful look. “I’ll try to keep them in line until we leave in the morning, but I hope you’ll be lenient with them, Sheriff.”

“No shooting or fighting,” Declan warned, “and we’ll get along fine.”