Rugged and Relentless (10 page)

“Mr. Draxley didn’t hire any of you?” She verified, “Everyone came in response to the advertisement we placed, asking prospective grooms to reply
in care of the postmaster general
?” Surely she could be forgiven for placing emphasis on that last part. She’d refrained from adding, “and not in person!”

“He don’t seem to care too much, but that were a good way ta give the locale.” A bulge in the man’s cheek tattled of a wad of chewing tobacco. “We came early to up our chances.”

“I believe that’s because he—and I’ll have to admit we, as well—were expecting written responses to that ad.” Naomi didn’t shy away from being more blunt. God bless her. “We never imagined you might travel all the way here before we responded.”

“Best way to pick a man is to look him over in person,” one of the better-looking candidates insisted. “Only natural.”

“Well, now that you’re all here”—Evie decided to make the best of things—“would you be interested in saving us the trouble of hiring other loggers to do the preliminary work? You’ll have room and board and all the food you can eat.”

“Evie!” Naomi caught on in a flash. “You’re not promising
your
cooking? That’s outrageous. You’ll work yourself to the bone with those creations of yours.”

“They’ll work hard, too.” Evie beamed at the men then allowed her smile to fade. “Or if not, we’ll hire men who will. Besides, I’m going to marry one of the loggers. They should all sample my cooking. It’s a fair reward, I think.”

“More than fair.” The twinkle in her friend’s eyes belied her grumble. “Though maybe we should hire others just to have more prospects? I hadn’t even considered that, but—”

“Now, now!” Mutters and murmurs among the men exploded into outright protest. “A deal’s a deal, missy!”

“You don’t lay an offer on the table then yank it away before a man decides whether or not to accept it.”

Another frowned at them. “That’s not honorable business practice.”

Evie made note of him. She liked the sound of his values.

“Especially not if it involves the
dinner
table!” Outrage colored that exclamation, and it evoked the biggest round of agreement yet. “You never mess with a man’s meals.”

As though I don’t already know that
. She gave in and grinned.
Looks as though my plan to bribe them with supper wasn’t too far off the mark. Meals work in any situation
.

“Should I take that to mean you’re accepting the offer?” She widened her eyes as though unsure and waited for the nods.

“We aren’t fools, are we, boys?” The spokesman started off the round of verbal agreements, and in no time, they had a deal.

“I’d be happy to make a fine supper for you this very evening, but I’m afraid your first meal will have to wait until we’re unpacked, and my stove”—she ran a loving hand along the top of the largest crate—“is in place in the café.”

The one who’d mentioned the dinner table volunteered on the spot. “We’re more than happy to see to it, ma’am.”

“You seemed … hesitant … when Mr. Draxley made the request.” Now was the time for Evie to establish him as their
mouthpiece. He may not be much, but with Braden ill, he’d have to do.

“We don’t work for him,” the burliest one explained. “But we’re more than happy to take care of anything for you ladies.”

“Anytime.” The men hurried to add their assurances.

“Just ask and it’s done.” They played right into her hands.

“Mr. Draxley might ask on our behalf sometimes.” Naomi spoke the words, sliding a glance at the anxious man and then looking back to the others with an almost helpless shrug. “If we can.”

“You can do anything you want, ma’am.”

“At the moment, we need to discuss our bargain with the other ladies so we can arrange proper introductions with all of us present.” Evie didn’t want to overlook good manners, but they needed to talk to Lacey. Now. “And then I’m going to fix something special for our first supper together!”

It was, Jake decided, a meal he’d never forget.

He speared what the cook tried to pass off as a green bean with the tines of his fork just to watch the limp, grayish thing slide back to the plate with a faint sucking sound. A glob of cold potatoes congealed beside them—slightly more appetizing than the yellowed meat loaf taking pride of place.

He thought it was supposed to be meat loaf. At least they called it meat loaf. Never mind the fact he’d never seen yellow meat loaf in all his born days—never hatched any desire to do so, either. More off-putting yet, the offensive thing boasted a sort of springy texture when he pressed the fork into it.

Fighting food
. By that, Jake meant it was the kind of meal a man fought to swallow, and the kind of meal that returned the favor by fighting for its freedom once he’d downed it, then stuck around to grumble about its defeat for days afterward. He pushed the plate away in favor of the biscuits.

Bounty of biscuits
. The memory of fantastic food prepared by a plucky woman made his mouth water. Jake slathered butter atop the biscuit, hoping for something even vaguely reminiscent of that previous perfection. He bit into it, chewed, swallowed, and reached for his mug.

He wasn’t one to judge cooking. Jake couldn’t make biscuits himself, so he could understand if they came out a bit burned or underdone or whatnot.
But how in thunder did anyone manage to make one hard as a rock on the outside, lumpy on the inside, and practically the batter itself in the middle?

Strike one: No edible food. Strike two: No pretty cook—though, in Jake’s opinion, that counted as two strikes. If Miss Thompson served this mess to him, he’d have downed it just for the sake of the company. Strike three: The place overcharged.

His hat wasn’t budging.

The only thing this place had going for it was the quiet—which first tipped him off the food wouldn’t be worth ordering extra. Memories of meaty sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, with sugar cookies tucked atop like sweet greetings, made his stomach growl. He cast another assessing glance at the table before him and ignored his belly for its own good.

Strong coffee and a place to read the papers he’d picked up earlier kept him in his chair—that, and the time he needed to kill before going to get answers from the squirrelly bartender. The man’s yellow belly probably matched Jake’s meat loaf.

Cracking his first smile since he’d walked into the place, he unfolded the paper and started reading. Then stopped. Jake flipped back to the front page of
Durango Doings
, a two-bit town newsletter he suddenly suspected to be at least a week old.

Today’s date stared back at him in smudged black on grayish paper of obvious poor quality. He turned the page to reread the advertisement that caught his eye, certain it couldn’t be the same one he’d chortled over from a week-old paper on the train.

“‘Wanted: three men, ages twenty-four to thirty-five …’”
He read the first line aloud before shaking his head. Same ad all right. Durango might be out of the way of civilization, for the most part, but with telegraphs transmitting words and the train carrying everything else, nothing could excuse being an entire week behind—even when it came to a joke.

Jake snorted, tossed the rag aside, and reached for the more reliable publication.

He scanned through it, waiting for something to catch his interest. When it did, he just about choked on the grit from his coffee. There, in a prestigious paper, the same cheeky ad stared up at him. No need to check the date this time—he already had.

When an ad ran for several days, in numerous publications, across several state and territorial lines, it wasn’t a joke missing its retraction then reprinted in a Podunk town. No.

Jake gaped at the words marching before him, considering them seriously for the first time. “
Object: Marriage …”

“Unbelievable.” He didn’t realize he’d muttered it aloud until chair legs scraped over the floor.

A fellow diner—who seemed only too glad for a reason to abandon his food—looked over his shoulder and caught sight of what he was reading.

“You just now seeing that?” He poked the paper with a grimy finger. “It’s been running in all the papers for a solid week now. At first everyone had a good laugh over it, but now seems like these gals mean business—and some men are planning on trying to take them up on the offer. Strange days, eh?”

“Strange, indeed.” Jake set the paper down—atop his plate, so he wouldn’t have to look at it. “Makes a man wonder.”

“Wonder what the world’s comin’ to, or what kind of hatchet-faced Methuselah shrews would try to hire husbands?”

Jake chuckled at the way the fellow put it. “Both.”

“Way I figure it, they’re desperate old maids with tongues sharp enough to cut a man off at the knees. Must be, putting an ad like that in the papers, bold as brass and twice as cheap.”

“It’s unfair to judge women you’ve never met.”
I suspect he’s more right than wrong, but that doesn’t make it right to say so
. “There’s no way of knowing what they’re like.”

“Oh, there’s a way.” The fellow leaned forward far enough to be balancing on two chair legs. “I aim to go and meet ’em face-to-face and see what they have to say.”

     SEVEN     

G
et out!” Braden roared the order when his sister and fiancée ignored him the first time.
No, not my fiancée
. His lungs closed, cutting off his breath the way they seemed to do whenever he overexerted himself.
They have to leave. Now
.

“Braden, we’ve come all this way to see you.” Cora—beautiful, incredible, muleheaded Cora—stepped close enough to place her hand over the sheet covering his. Sweet torture.

Thank God for the sheet pulled up to his chin. They couldn’t see the straps holding him helpless as a newborn or a lackwit. And, if he had his way, they never would. He drew deep breaths, fighting for air so he could fight for his dignity.

“We’ve so much to tell you!” His sister flitted around the room, touching everything, not holding still for an instant. “Why, you’ll never guess half of it, absolutely never believe—”

“That you’re
still here
?” He needed them gone before they realized the extent of his shame. Before he saw pity and sorrow replace the joy and love in Cora’s eyes.

“No, not that.” Lacey pshawed. “Stop worrying about that. We’re real enough. Not some dream because of what they give you for the pain. Cora and I won’t disappear. We promise!”

“I won’t leave you. Ever.” Cora reached over to smooth his hair from his forehead in a gesture meant to be maternal.

She didn’t realize the effect her very nearness had—that the movement brought her close enough for him to catch the scent of lilacs and summer so uniquely Cora. She couldn’t know that the merest brush of her soft hand against his forehead made him shiver, or that the shiver sent streaks of pain shooting from his wasted legs.
She’ll never know. I won’t let her
.

“Don’t touch me. Just leave.” He gritted the words from behind clenched teeth, behind the pain he wouldn’t show them. “I don’t want you here. Go back home and don’t come back.”

Cora recoiled as though he’d shot her.

The moment her hand stopped smoothing his hair, his pain doubled.
Coincidence
.