Read High Country Bride Online
Authors: Linda Lael Miller
Tags: #Westerns, #Fiction, #Romance, #Western, #Historical, #General
High Country Bride (26 page)
“It amazes me,” he confided, plumping his pillow and putting it in place next to the headboard,“that you can be so bashful in the daylight, and such a little temptress at night.” His mouth quirked up at one side, in a mischievous grin. “You’re a paradox, Mrs. McKettrick,” he drawled.“Don’t ever change.”
She swatted at him with her pillow, laughing, and he reached across, caught her by the wrist, and threw her down onto her back, making the mattress bounce beneath her. He’d just put one knee on the side of the bed, as if to throw himself on her, when someone cleared his throat a few yards away. Emmeline, realizing that the door was open, shot to her feet, straightening her skirts and staring fixedly at the floor, as mortified as she’d ever been in her life.
“Good morning,”Angus said, his deep voice brimming with amusement.
Rafe turned, grinning. “Morning,” he said, with a telling degree of exuberance.
Emmeline wished the floorboards would open up so she could fall between them. Raising her eyes to meet her father-in-law’s gaze was one of the most difficult things she had ever attempted. She managed a slight nod.
“Concepcion sent me to tell you she’s got breakfast started,” Angus said. Although he was not smiling with his mouth, his blue eyes were bright with merriment. “She’s busy packing a basket so you won’t have to eat Red’s cooking up there in camp.”
“Thank you,” Emmeline said.
With that, Angus turned and walked away. Emmeline heard him chuckling to himself as he made his way down the hall.
She waggled her index finger at Rafe. “Next time,” she whispered,“close the door!”
He laughed.“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Half an hour later, filled with Concepcion’s hearty oatmeal laced with molasses, with a jug of coffee to share on the ride and a lunch tucked away in the back of the wagon, Emmeline and Rafe crossed the creek, its waters shining pink and gold as the sun rose, following a dozen mounted men headed toward the mountain.
The trip was long, and the wagon seat was hard, but Emmeline was glad she’d agreed to come along. She did not know if she loved Rafe McKettrick, the man, but she loved being with him, and she loved the breathtaking scenery surrounding them on all sides. She loved the quick little jackrabbits, watching them pass, loved the sky, breaking open like a jewel as the sun finally mounted the eastern horizon, shining in earnest.
Her first sight of the new house, more than an hour later, its log walls nearly tall enough for the roof to be set upon its beams, literally took her breath away. It was a long, one-story structure, and all the windows and doors had been framed. Through the doorway, in fact, she could see the skeletons of the interior walls, and the stone fireplace at one end was already taking shape, made of colorful rocks hauled up from the creek bed down by the main house.
“Oh, Rafe,” she said, purely enthralled. At last, at last, she would have a real home of her own.
“Rafe.”
He beamed at her, setting the brake, securing the reins, jumping down, reaching up to take her by the waist when she slid to his side of the wagon seat. He lifted her down, setting her gently on her feet, as if she were made of fragile, precious stuff. “What do you think?” he asked, his voice hoarse, and pitched so she and she alone could hear.
“It’s a mansion,” she said. “A palace!” Then she put her arms around his neck, devil take the watching crew of men, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him soundly, right on the mouth. The onlookers cheered, as they had once before, but this time she paid them no mind, didn’t even blush, or look away from Rafe’s face. “Let’s move in right now, today. We don’t need floors, or a roof, or windows.”
He laughed and, taking her hand, led her toward the front door. “That is a tempting suggestion,” he allowed. “Come on, Mrs. McKettrick—I’ll give you a tour.”
They walked slowly through the rooms, Emmeline imagining how each one would look when it was finished, and there was furniture, and rugs on the floor, and pictures on the walls. Here, in the kitchen, she would teach her daughters to bake bread. There, by the fireplace, she would trim her sons’ hair, and sweep the clippings into the hearth.
They stepped into the room that would be their own, and Emmeline spotted a bunch of bluebells and buttercups growing where they meant to set up the bed. Rafe followed her gaze, and bent to pick the flowers for her, offering them as hopefully as if he were a lad, barely out of school, come a-courting for the first time. She accepted the fragile blossoms with something akin to reverence, and was careful to wrap them in a moist table napkin so they wouldn’t wither.
That night, when they returned to the main house, the long day behind them, the joyous night still ahead, she pressed them between the pages of a huge tome, borrowed from Angus’s library. When they were properly dried, she would put them in the album Rafe had given her, the one that said
OUR FAMILY
on the front, and keep them forever and ever.
O
N
I
NDEPENDENCE
D
AY
,
the official start of the party, which was expected to last three days and nights, wagons and buggies began arriving just after noon, burgeoning with excited passengers. Men came riding mules, as well as horses, and many made the trek on foot. Angus personally greeted everyone, including those Concepcion pointed out to Emmeline as his biggest rivals, when it came to ranching and grandfathering, with an exuberant handshake and a resonant, “Welcome!” Even Mr. Chandler, who had fallen into disfavor by selling his sizable ranch to Holt when he’d promised it to Angus, was received cordially.
The two women, looking on from the spare room, which was now equipped with several hastily constructed cots to accommodate the more delicate guests, smiled at Angus’s obvious delight in the occasion.
“He is so proud,” Concepcion said, with affection.
Folks had already begun erecting tents in the field east of the house, while others clearly planned to sleep in or underneath their rigs. This gathering was undeniably the biggest social event of the year for many miles around. Horses and mules were unhitched and unsaddled, then turned out to pasture in the high grass down by the creek. Women in calico and Sunday bonnets greeted one another with laughter and embraces, and children ran in the tall grass, stretching their legs after the long ride.
“It looks almost like a gypsy camp,” Emmeline remarked, filled with excitement. She imagined dancers in colorful skirts, cavorting wildly around the campfire in the night, and old women with warts, telling fortunes from cards so timeworn that the images barely showed.
Concepcion smiled. “Yes,” she said. “See that family over there, with the Conestoga wagon and the flock of red-haired children? They’re the O’Learys—their homestead is closer to Tucson than Indian Rock, so they’ve probably been on the road for several days.”
“My goodness,” Emmeline said, impressed. She marveled at the distance the O’Learys had traveled, in a wagon drawn by oxen; she had journeyed many more miles, it was true, coming out from Kansas City, but she’d had only herself to look after, not a whole family, and trains and stagecoaches, as uncomfortable as they could be, made considerably better time than a dilapidated old Conestoga.
“They’ll have persuaded a neighbor to tend their stock while they’re gone,” Concepcion said, her gaze fond as she watched the O’Learys greeting Angus and some of the other guests. “It isn’t often that there’s a party like this. Folks won’t want to miss a minute of it, no matter how far they have to come to get here.”
“It will be wonderful,” Emmeline said, with confidence. She and Concepcion and even Red, from the bunkhouse, had been cooking and setting food by in the pantry and out in the springhouse for days. There was a whole beef roasting underground, in a special pit lined with stone, raising a luscious aroma, and the carcasses of two pigs, bought from a farmer on the other side of Indian Rock, were hanging in the storage shed, to be cooked when the beef ran out.
The dance floor had been sanded, and the Chinese lanterns, which Emmeline and Concepcion had hung themselves, swayed red and blue and orange and green in the sultry breeze of that summer afternoon. The cowboy band, recruited from the bunkhouse and calling themselves the Triple M Three, had been practicing their limited but lively repertoire every night for a week. Emmeline and Rafe had danced together in the moon-washed grass just outside the back door whenever there was music, practicing for the night of the party, the anticipation building with every moment that passed.
Now, at long last, the waiting was over.
When Becky arrived, in a wagon driven by Marshal John Lewis, with Clive and an older woman, who was probably his mother, and, of all things, a nun, all perched in the back, Emmeline could contain herself no longer. She jumped to her feet and ran out of the spare room, fairly leaping down the steps. Such was her haste that she reached Becky’s side of the wagon before the other woman could even alight.
Emmeline’s heart climbed into her throat when she got a close look at Becky; she’d lost weight since she’d seen her last, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her smile, however, was as brave and as confident, even impudent, as ever. When the marshal had helped her down from the wagon, she opened her arms to Emmeline.
Emmeline embraced Becky, squeezing hard, but taking care not to crush her, too. She looked as though her very bones would crumble if Emmeline held her too tightly. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said.
Becky kissed her cheek. “You are a sight for sore and weary eyes, Emmeline,” she said. Then she began making introductions, while the lawman stood quietly at her side, and the other passengers assembled behind her. “My niece, Mrs. Emmeline McKettrick,” she said grandly, smiling at Emmeline. “You know Marshal Lewis, I believe,” she went on.“And Clive, too. This is his mother, Mrs. Hallowell, and here—” she paused, gripped the nun’s sleeve, and pulled her gently to the fore,“here is Sister Mandy.”
Sister Mandy? Emmeline set the name aside to puzzle over later, and concentrated on shaking each person’s hand, even Clive’s clammy one, and welcoming them all, in turn, as she had seen Angus doing from the upstairs window. Mrs. Hallowell, mother of the redoubtable Clive, was a likable soul, small as a child, with lively brown eyes and a sweet smile. The nun was so covered up in black serge that only her face was visible. She had beautiful blue-green eyes, the lashes long and dark, high cheekbones, a bow-shaped mouth, and clear skin. Her hair was completely covered by the wimple, and might have been any color. She smiled slightly at Emmeline and murmured,“Hello,” but would not meet her gaze.
Emmeline glanced at Becky, in silent inquiry, but Becky merely raised her eyebrows as if to say, Don’t ask me.
“Let’s get you three ladies settled in the spare room,” Emmeline said brightly, taking Becky’s arm. “Marshal, I’m sure you and Clive will want to say hello to Angus. He’s over there, by the barbecue pit.”
Mr. Lewis smiled and tipped his hat, and when his glance lit on Becky, it was solicitous as well as respectful. “We’ll go over and present ourselves properlike right now,” he said.“Come on, Clive.”
He and Becky looked at each other for a long moment, then the marshal strode away, with Clive following rather reluctantly behind him.
“He’ll be just fine,” Becky said kindly.
By then, she and Emmeline had linked arms. Emmeline was eager to ask Becky about the state of her health, but she knew she would get a smart set-down if she brought up the subject in front of other people.
Becky sat down in the kitchen to take tea with Concepcion, who greeted her warmly. Mrs. Hallowell joined them, while Emmeline and Sister Mandy trooped up the rear stairs with the bags.
“Aren’t you roasting to death in that habit?” Emmeline asked forthrightly, when she and the young nun had reached the spare room. The cots, with their rope springs and straw-stuffed mattresses, had been made up with crisp sheets, plump pillows, and blankets. “I could lend you a calico dress.”
The girl tried to smile, and almost made it. There was something so forlorn about her—she was barely more than a child, for one thing—that Emmeline found herself wanting to take her under her wing. She had no doubt that Becky felt a similar sympathy, which was why “Sister Mandy” was a part of her entourage. “I’m supposed to wear this,” she said, indicating the habit with a graceful motion of her hands. “I reckon God expects that.”
Emmeline frowned, finding the remark odd, to say the least. She didn’t want to commit a mortal sin by persuading a nun to break some sacred rule, but neither could she see the harm in the young woman setting aside those grim and heavy garments for just one night. “Perhaps God would understand,” she replied quietly, “if you dressed modestly, and honored your vows.”
Sister Mandy lowered her eyes, shook her head. “No,” she said.“But thanks.”
Emmeline suppressed a sigh.“Well, then, now that you know where you’re to sleep, let’s go downstairs and have some tea.”
Mandy hesitated, then set her small bundle of possessions on one of the beds, the one farthest from the window and wedged into a corner. “All right,” she said, and followed meekly when Emmeline led the way.
The night sky gleamed, studded with stars, and the great bonfire, built well away from any structures or trees, blazed gloriously. People milled everywhere, enjoying roasted beef, baked potatoes, and beans cooked up with molasses and brown sugar, in great crockery pots, all of it served up on plates they’d brought themselves, in wagons and buggies, saddlebags and reticules. The cowboy band was tuning up, having just finished several helpings of supper. Emmeline, standing at the study window in her new green party dress, her hair upswept, an extra pair of Becky’s earbobs brushing her cheeks, looked out on the scene in wonder.
