Mail-Order Christmas Brides Boxed Set (64 page)

“He did that.” Eleanor had found the bag of pinto beans, too, in the shelter behind the cabin. She’d thought they had been overlooked by whoever had lived here before, but now she realized they’d been left as a kindness, as well.

The sergeant opened the firebox of the old stove and put a handful of twigs inside before shutting it again.

“And you need more wood, too. Didn’t the Hargroves stop by and see how you were doing?”

Eleanor nodded. “A couple of times.”

“Well, knowing them, they must have asked if you had everything you needed.”

“They did. I told them I was fine. The bacon was a present, they said. That’s why I accepted it.”

He grunted at that, but didn’t say any more.

She was glad to see his gaze had returned to the nearly empty wood box. She’d only used a small fire when cooking because she feared running out of fuel to burn. There was a grove of trees down in the gully to the left of them by the creek, but she hadn’t been strong enough to pull any of the fallen trees back to the cabin. The sergeant could use the wagon and horses to do that. She wanted to see how the stove took to a full fire before she tried to bake anything like biscuits in it. The furniture and other things in the cabin had all been used to the point of breaking so she didn’t have much confidence in the stove, especially since it seemed to heat unevenly.

“Well, it’s beans for supper, then, I guess,” he said softly as he finally looked up at her.

She was silent for a moment. His face was tense and she didn’t know why. Maybe he was embarrassed to have nothing else to serve his mother. She bristled with the thought that he would blame her for that until she remembered how prickly her father had been when he’d made a mistake. He’d be the same way if his supplies hadn’t come through.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Christmas won’t be here for two more days.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I should have taken the message to the mercantile myself. I’ll make a trip to Miles City tomorrow to buy what we need.”

Eleanor nodded. She felt better getting to know his ways. “I gave some of the peaches to the Hargroves when they brought me the bacon. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m glad you did,” he said, some of the tension leaving him, as well.

“They’re good neighbors,” he added and smiled at her as if she was somehow responsible for that.

Eleanor stopped in mid-fret. She might trust him a little more since he had some of the same failings as her father, but she didn’t want him to feel as if he had to pretend they were a normal engaged couple. She was going to be mothering his daughter; she expected to love Hannah. But she hadn’t decided how she would feel about him yet. It was easiest to see him as her new employer. Either way, he didn’t need to smile so much and she ought to tell him that.

“I can make a peach cobbler,” she heard herself say instead, and then, lest he read too much into that, she added, “We need something special for Christmas. Or, if you’d rather, I could make a plum pudding if you get the ingredients.”

Because of her father’s Irish pride, English puddings had been strictly forbidden when she prepared meals in the sheepherder’s wagon. On the holiday, she’d serve up a nice spiced beef brisket roasted over
the fire and they’d talk of the Christmas cake he remembered from his childhood. But the cook in the Stout kitchen had said she’d known plenty of Irish who enjoyed an English pudding and she’d shown Eleanor how to make one when the staff had found out she was going West. She’d also shown her how to roast a Christmas goose and make a hard sugar candy. Not that Eleanor was likely to find a goose wandering around this country, but when she got some sugar she might attempt the candy. Mrs. Stout had given her a small bottle of peppermint oil to use in it if she got the chance.

Just then Adam’s mother swept aside the curtain that separated the main part of the house from the back room that held the bed. “I’ve always thought a Christmas called for meringue.”

“We don’t have any eggs, Mother,” Adam said.

“Well, surely for Christmas—” She turned and looked at Eleanor. Some of the purple had gone out of the woman’s face and she looked genuinely concerned. “Hannah expects a proper Christmas dinner. I always make a sour cream raisin pie with meringue. It’s her favorite.”

“She’ll find a new favorite,” Adam said in a tight voice. “This is the West. Things are different.”

“Not so different that you can ignore a little girl’s Christmas,” his mother said as she turned around. “I just hope Hannah is sleeping and doesn’t hear any of this.”

Having made her disapproval clear, his mother marched into the back room.

There was a moment of silence after that.

“I’m sorry, I—” Adam ran his fingers through his hair as he kept looking at the curtain. “My mother will be out here again once she’s made sure Hannah is down for her nap.” He looked at Eleanor. “I’m afraid she’ll be here through Christmas, but we’ll be fine. Get a good night’s sleep and—” he stopped and paused a moment and looked around “—I’m sorry. I guess I need more beds. I had planned to fetch Hannah myself, but my mother decided to bring her here so she could—ah—meet you.”

Eleanor lifted her chin. This all was hardly her fault. “Even with just Hannah here, we would need more beds. You have only the one stool, too.”

She should have realized what it meant to see that sole stool standing alone in the middle of the floor when she first entered this place. Adam might have written her the letter asking her to marry him and he might have sent her the money to buy a railroad ticket out here, but he hadn’t given any thought at all to what their life together would be like. Even Mrs. Stout had given more consideration to this new life; in addition to the peppermint oil she’d placed in her valise, the older woman had given her a dozen linen handkerchiefs and a book on raising a lady so Eleanor would know what to do for her young charge.

She watched Adam look around the room as though he hadn’t noticed until now that it was furnished for one lonely old man who never even had company for dinner.

“Those trunks I put in the back room—the ones
that have Hannah’s things. We can sit on them,” he finally said.

“I have some lengths of flannel that I can drape over them,” Eleanor said, offering what she could. As an early Christmas gift, Mrs. Stout had given her back some of the cloth she had woven this fall. “They’re nothing fancy, but most of them are a nice sheep’s gray. And warm. I could add some red ribbon to the corners to make them festive. And they’ll keep everyone’s clothes clean and prevent any snags from the trunks.”

“Good,” he said quietly, but she could see that his heart wasn’t in it. He looked tired. “The ribbon will be nice. A woman’s touch is what we need to make this a home.”

“The ribbon is a little worn,” she added, determined to be truthful.

What had she done? Eleanor wondered. She’d never thought the man she was setting out to marry would worry about ribbons. She’d grown up in a sheepherder’s wagon; she never felt she quite belonged in houses that had what he called a “woman’s touch.” Needlepoint and lace doilies were not for her. She had assumed her husband would be happy when he found out all of the practical things she could do. This was the West. She’d thought men needed women who could settle the land with them. She wasn’t even sure she could tie the ribbon into a pretty bow.

She forced herself to stand tall and remember that she had no need to be ashamed.

If she were applying for a job here, she’d men
tion that she’d gotten quite a reputation on Nantucket Island for being able to sheer a sheep and, black or white, cord and weave its fleece into some of the softest flannel around. And, with the wool that was left, she could make beautiful dyed threads using onion peels or goldenrod flowers or even tree bark if that’s all she had. Added to that, she knew herbs and salves well enough to cure whatever plagued a farm animal.

Any farmer should be happy to have her as his wife.

Given all of the confusion lately, though, she realized she had one critical question she had yet to ask. “You are planning to farm, aren’t you? Cows and maybe some sheep? Mrs. Stout seemed to think—” she let her words trail away when she saw the scowl settle on his face.

* * *

Adam wondered what his mother had told Mrs. Stout and Eleanor. He’d only sent the one letter, but his mother had written one, or maybe two, before that. He hadn’t even read what she’d said.

“You’ll have enough to worry about with Hannah and the house.” He realized he should have made it clear to the woman that he expected to make her life easier. “I’m not marrying you in hopes of having a field hand.”

“Oh,” she said.

He thought he saw something go out of her face, but it couldn’t be. All of the women he knew would be happy to be spared a man’s work. “I could probably use some help with the chickens if I can find someone willing to sell me a sitting hen.”

She raised her head to him at that. “You can’t mean to get one now. Baby chickens would freeze to death around here. I wouldn’t even let my kitten outside at night. The wind comes from the north, down from Canada, right between those low mountains behind us. I’ve never felt anything so cold in my life. I can’t imagine what a little chicken would do.”

Her look demanded an answer.

“I plan to build a place for the hens to roost in a corner of the shelter. That backs up to the fireplace,” he told her. He noticed she wasn’t giving up anything, not even that cat. “They’ll be warm enough there when we start to have a fire in the cabin more regularly—which we’ll do from tonight on.”

She nodded, but still seemed dubious. “You’ll have to make the shed back there bigger. You’ll keep the horses, of course, and we might want a cow. And maybe a few sheep.”

“Whoa,” Adam said. He’d been around this area long enough to know one thing. “This is going to be cattle country. There might not be many herds here yet, but none of our neighbors will speak to us if we bring in sheep. They eat the grass right down to the root. I know the Hargroves are bringing in more cattle from Texas this spring. Longhorns, I think.”

“There’s nothing wrong with sheep no matter how they eat their grass. The Good Lord Himself compared us to them. And we’re His beloved children.”

Unfortunately, his mother came through the curtain in time to hear Eleanor’s defense of the wooly animals.

“You’re not telling people you’re Irish, are you?”
his mother demanded as she strode into the room with enough force to make a squadron hesitate. “All this foolishness about sheep. That’s your father talking. Your mother was pure English—whether she talked to her parents or not, she had their blood, and hers is stronger than some poor Irishman’s. That’s all people need to know.”

“What’s that got to do with—” Adam began.

“I’m Irish enough,” Eleanor said before he could even finish his words. She was squared off against his mother. “And I see no shame in it. Saint Patrick himself came to the blessed island and—”

“Hush, now. Surely, you don’t want people to know,” his mother continued as she reached up to tidy her hair. “You’re in America now. You can see how people feel about the Irish. Putting aside their loud ways and fondness for strong drink, none of them are, well, refined enough for society. Think of the troubles it might cause Hannah.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Hannah,” Adam protested.

“Well, of course not,” Eleanor said as she turned away from him and walked toward the door.

She caught him by surprise and he said the first thing that occurred to him. “Stop. You can’t go out there.”

She turned around and looked at him. “Is that an order, Sergeant?”

“I’m out of the army now. Call me Adam,” he commanded. “And it’s bitter cold out there.”

Her green eyes smoldered but she listened, so he
added, “The sun’s almost gone down and you’ll freeze. You don’t even have a cloak with you. Where is your cloak, anyway?”

“I don’t need one.”

The fool woman was worried about unborn chickens and didn’t have sense enough to take care of herself, he thought. And then he finally understood. “Surely, you have a cloak.”

“I wrap up in a piece of my flannel. Or one of the army blankets. That works fine,” she said and went over to sit down on the stool next to a ball of yarn. She picked up her knitting needles and began to knit something yellow.

“Nice yarn,” he said by way of showing he was sorry he’d pricked her pride. He’d had no idea she wasn’t properly provided for on that estate where she worked. Now wasn’t the time to ask about it, though.

“I corded the yarn myself,” she said, her voice not much warmer than before. But then she seemed to remember something and her mouth twisted. “Made a mistake by boiling it with some late-blooming goldenrods, though. It had been dry that year and the color didn’t take for some reason. Mrs. Stout said the yellow was so faded and uneven it wasn’t fit to warm the feet of the stable boy.”

She looked at him, then. “You see, each year for Boxing Day the housemaids would knit a new pair of stockings for everyone on the estate. Since they couldn’t use it, Mrs. Stout gave the yarn to me when I left. She said there’d be some use for it out West. Just like there’d be for me.”

With that, she bent to her knitting and was silent.

“You miss the Stout estate?” he asked, unwilling to let the conversation die and still curious about how she’d fared there.

She nodded.

The sergeant was congratulating himself on making progress with his intended, when he heard a gasp behind him.

His mother had come into the room and was staring at the ceiling. “Whatever is that?”

Drops of mud were falling down onto the old piece of carpet that covered most of the packed dirt floor. It looked like several lengths of muslin had been nailed into place from beam to beam to cover the sod ceiling, but the material had obviously gotten damp and rotted.

“It’s the snow on the roof,” Eleanor said. “The fire must be warming things up.”

“I’ll go out and brush the snow off in a minute,” he said.

“Hannah can’t stay here,” his mother said more quietly than he would have expected. She almost sounded as if she regretted the fact.