Rocky Mountain Bride (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 2) (4 page)

“Sorry.” She dashed to undo the gate to the corral. He passed her without a word and disappeared behind the stables. Her horse greeters disappeared as well, stomping out their approval at the arrival of breakfast.

When Miles returned, wiping the sweat off his brow and torso, Carrie remembered that she’d left her hair hanging willynilly down her back. Reaching up, she pulled back her hair with self-conscious hands, weaving it into a swift braid. Then she grabbed up her skirts, though all morning they’d trailed in the dewy grass, and it was too late to save them.

Miles watched her frantic dance. Finally, he opened his shirt and dropped it over his head. He came towards her, close enough for her to smell his musk of hay and sweat.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough.” She wet her lips but couldn’t bring herself to complain about the poor mattress, or ask if he’d enjoyed his night on the porch. He must have been awake and working for hours.

“Good,” he said. “Let me show you your chores.” He strode through the mud, and offered her his arm. After a moment, she took it, remembering her episode the night before. As they crossed over the thick grass from the corral to the gardens, she leaned on him and felt none of the panic she’d experienced in the dark cabin.

Her inspection found the gardens neat and well-planted, though ready for a good weeding. Everything but the corn was fenced in, and a few of the posts had sagged and needed mending. A small fence divided the vegetables from the chicken’s section, and Miles paused at the sturdy gate.

“Always keep the gate latched. I built the fence air tight, after coyotes carried off a few hens.” He stepped inside the coop and showed her the six hens and rooster. “I waited until I knew you were coming to get more. They’re your responsibility now.”

The hens ignored the visitors, pecking over the ground. They were squat birds too fat to fly out of the high fence, but one of them darted for the outside.

“Mind the gate, Carrie.”

She whirled and caught the door, her fast movement causing the chickens to squawk.

“Sorry,” she said to her unsmiling guide. “What sort of chicken is this one?” She stepped forward and heard a cracking sound. At her feet were broken shells and oozing yolk.

“The kind that lays eggs on the ground,” Miles said. “That was breakfast.”

Grimacing, Carrie shook the yolk off her shoe and apologized again.

“There’ll be more tomorrow.” He pointed out how they nested and laid, and where he would build a shelter for them. “My work will go faster now.”

Following him out of the coop, Carrie hoped that would be true.

“Latch the gate,” he reminded her, and she hurried to catch it before a chicken made its escape.

When she turned to head to the homestead, Miles was standing in her path, head bowed. Studying his solemn face, she felt uneasy. Was he having second thoughts about keeping her?

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll not be able to repeat myself on every lesson.”

“I shouldn’t want you to.” Carrie twisted her hands in her skirt. Was he going to send her back? “I’ll learn faster, I promise.”

“I find that swift punishment is a good reminder. I intend to give you correction when you need it.”

She almost felt relief. He wasn’t sending her home. “I understand, Mr. Donovan. As your wife, I’ll submit to it.”

“So we’re in agreement. Next time you leave the gate open, there will be consequences. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Let the punishment fit the offense,” she said, and started to move away.

“Not so fast.” He caught her arm, then dropped it when she stiffened. “When I do take you in hand, I’ll give you instructions, and talk with you to make sure you’re clear on why you’re being punished. If you argue or talk back, the discipline will be longer. I’ll hurt you, but I’ll never harm you. Understand?”

She jerked out a nod, and he returned it.

“Next time, mind the gate.”

*****

The next trial came on the way up the hill.

Miles pointed out the pails sitting next to the corral. “Fetching water after tending the chickens will be your duty. I did it this morning. It’d be a great help if you could put them in the cabin.”

She took up the pails and started back to the homestead. Her dress dragged across the grass and threatened to trip her, heavy with dew and mud. Mentally she added laundry to her chore list.

When she was about halfway up the hill, a black stick at her feet uncoiled and slid away. She jumped back, sloshing water, and shrieked as the snake disappeared into the grass.

“What is it?” Miles was at her side in an instant, his hands gripped her waist to steady her. She hadn’t even seen him race up the hill.

“Nothing,” she gasped.

“Don’t lie to me.” He frowned. “Something startled you.”

“It was a snake. It’s gone now.”

He waited until she got her breath back. “Was it black?” And when she nodded, his grip loosened. “It’s harmless. You afraid of snakes?”

“No. I nearly trod on it, that’s all.” She stepped away from him and picked up the fallen pails with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Careful,” he said, and it took everything she had not to snap at him.

The rest of the morning didn’t go much better. After finding mouse droppings in the larder, she filled the cabin with smoke trying to build a fire, then singed a corner of her dress and cracked the pot that held breakfast. She was salvaging some porridge from the broken pot, when Miles came in and looked around the smoky room, then at her kneeling in front of the fire.

“I’m sorry,” she said, fighting tears all over again.

He squatted and took the pot from her, then set it aside and grabbed a skillet. Carrie watched silently as he heated some fat, then tossed in a mixture of flour and salt, along with two eggs that must have escaped her clumsy feet. In a minute, he served fry bread along with a few carrots and tomatoes harvested from the garden.

They ate with their hands. After years living out here, he seemed comfortable with silence. She gathered up the things in the pail for washing later, but as she went by the hearth, she tripped over the skillet, pushing it into the fire. Dropping the pail with a clatter, she hurried to grab the pan and keep the embers from spilling over onto the floor. Ashes flew.

He waited until she stopped coughing then said from the doorway, “I’m willing to take this on a trial, if you wish.” His hand rubbed the back of his neck, the way he did when he was thinking.

Her heart dropped. “I don’t take your meaning.”

“The time comes you don’t want to continue, I’ll take you back to town and then give the fare for a coach ride back home.”

Despair flashed through her, followed by anger. Going home wasn’t an option, but she’d be damned before she admitted it. Taking a deep breath, she called on the fiery will that brought her cross country, and scrambled to her feet.

“Are you having second thoughts, Mr. Donovan?”

The tawny eyes regarded her. “No. Are you?”

“Not yet,” she snapped. “I’m not the type of woman to come all this way, and then leave because of a bad turn.”

“Watch your tone,” he said, face stern.

“I’ll watch my tone, if you watch your words.” She raised her chin, drawing herself up to her full height, a foot shorter than him. “I had the courage to leave my home and come here. Don’t insult me by assuming I’m too weak to handle a few broken eggs.”

His eyes narrowed, and though he didn’t smile, she felt his mood soften. “Very well.” He settled his hat on his head and started for the door.

She picked up the broken pot, then risked calling him back. “Mr. Donovan.” He bent his head to peer back at her through the doorframe. She took a deep breath. “May I ask why you sent for me? I mean, sent for a wife instead of finding someone here. Maybe someone you’d met before.”

“You saw the town?”

“Yes. If you can call it that.”

He nodded. “There aren’t ten women out here. The nearest town is Florence, and there’s ten men for every woman, at least. Besides,” he stepped back in the cabin, broad body blocking the light, “I’m particular in who I’d take for a wife.” He came closer, and hands closed around the pot, his fingers brushing hers. “I need a strong woman, Carrie, and one who will follow where I’ll lead. You understand?”

“I understand.” She swallowed hard. His face in the dim light seemed harsh, all angles and planes, but his eyes on hers were gentle.

She moved her hand; the touch of his fingers sparking something in her. Suddenly, she forgot how to speak.

“You read my letter.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, watching him as if he were a snake.

He bent his head towards hers. “So you understand the particulars of our marriage?”

I desire a woman who will know her place at my side…a wife who will be honest, hardworking, obedient, and respectful. She will follow my lead…

“Yes, sir.”

A slight crinkle around his eyes appeared at her formal address, and she knew it pleased him.

“Good. Then it should be simple.” He pulled the pot away from her, gently, and she stayed frozen.

“One more thing,” she called, and he paused in his exit. “I have a request for you, if you see another black snake.”

“You want me to kill it?”

“No.” She raised her chin. “Catch it, and put it under the porch. I need it to keep mice out of the pantry.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw some respect in his eyes before he walked out the door.

*****

After that, Miles left her alone in the cabin. He saddled Monty and rode him west of the homestead, she knew not where. So she tied her hair back and set to her chores. After shaking out the blankets and folding them, she plumped the mattress ticking as best she could, cursing the old straw under her breath. She used the rest of the water to wipe up the table and swipe the ashes from the hearth, and then she went on tidying up, learning every rough board and dark corner. She used rope, a stick and some straw to make a rude brush and knocked the cobwebs out.

All the while she thought about her future. So far Miles had proven to be a good man, strong and trustworthy. But could she be a good wife to him?

The chores she could learn easily enough. She’d always been a hard worker. Miles would never have a cause to complain or send her home.

It was his manner that worried her. Back in town, she’d been sure she couldn’t fall in love with such a stern, hard man. But since then, he’d been increasingly gentle. Could she marry him and still guard her heart?

She must, she decided. All her energy must go to being a perfect wife to him, and she must never let her feelings get out of hand. Love would lead to her ruin; it had before, and she’d vowed she’d never care for a man that way again.

Just as she reached this conclusion, hoof beats sounded just outside the door, and her heart leaped at the thought of seeing Mr. Donovan. Scolding nerves for their excitement, she wiped her hands clean, and checked if there were cobwebs in her hair.

Tucking a stray lock behind her ear, she rushed to the door, and then stopped. A glossy black stallion pawed the ground in front of the porch, and then Wilder came around, pulling off his hat and smoothing his glossy black hair.

“Miss Winters,” Lyle Wilder called to her. “Or is it Mrs. Donovan now?” He smirked.

“Mr. Wilder.” She narrowed her eyes at the handsome man as he brushed imaginary dust from his black vest. He preened like a silly maid, although she had to admit he looked smart in his white shirt and the black pants encasing his long legs. A pity he knew it.

She crossed her arms and didn’t move from the door. “Can I help you?”

“Just being neighborly.” The way his eyes shifted around, taking in the stable and corral, and gardens beyond, made Carrie think that he hadn’t seen the place before, and he’d timed his visit for early afternoon, when Miles would be in the fields.

“Mr. Donovan will be back from fetching water in a moment,” she lied. “Do you want to wait for him, or shall I tell him you were here?”

Lyle understood her warning, and put a hand on his horse. “No need to bother him. I was just passing through.”

“Then I bid you good day,” she said. “For the both of us.”

“So formal.” He smirked at her. “I almost don’t recognize the flirty maid in Martin’s store.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You dare—”

“Don’t worry.” Lyle waved his hand and swung up on his mount, looking dashing and dangerous on the beautiful black stallion. “If Miles asks, I’ll tell him you were chaste. He has such a fascination with virtuous women.” His smile seemed bitter and twisted.

“I’m sure Mr. Donovan won’t need a report from you,” she said, although she felt a pang of fear. What if her husband-to-be found out about her?

Lyle’s jovial mood dropped away completely, and she knew she’d struck a blow. “No, he’s not likely to heed anything I say.” The stallion bucked a little, and Lyle guided it into a neat circle. Both horse and rider seemed filled with a nervous energy. As soon as Lyle faced her again, his mock friendliness was back. “I’m curious—how do you feel about him?”

“Mr. Donovan and I are getting on quite well, thank you.”

“He’s got you calling him Mr. Donovan. Stern, old fellow isn’t he?”

“He isn’t much older than I am.”

“Almost thirty.”

Carrie gripped the rag she held to keep from tossing at the odious man. “That doesn’t matter. He’s kept quite well.”

Lyle’s dark head went back, and he flashed his own pearly whites as he laughed.

“All right. He’s not so old for you. I just thought a fine city lady like yourself would grow tired of leathery old Donovan.”

“I assure you, Mr. Wilder, my husband-to-be and I like each other’s company.” It was the truth, she realized, and blushed hard.

“I’m happy to hear it.” Mr. Wilder turned his stallion about again, and tipped his hat to her. “Well, do let me know if you need anything, neighbor, be it an egg or a cup of sugar.”

The man made the word sugar sound lascivious. Carrie ignored his flirty wave, and stalked back in the cabin to take out her frustration on the remaining cobwebs.