Short Straw Bride (14 page)

Luke’s jaw set with determination. She might have managed to buffalo his men but he was made of sterner stuff, and he wasn’t going to let a snip of a female dictate to him. If she thought he was going to come crawling, asking her to let him back into
his
bed, she had another think coming. A man didn’t
ask
to share his wife’s bed—it was his right in the eyes of God and the law. The only reason he hadn’t insisted on claiming that right was that he was being gracious, giving his bride time to get over her snit. Pretty soon he’d put his foot down and make it clear to Eleanor that he was through playing
this little game of hers. Maybe he’d even do it tonight after supper.

The thought of spending the night between cool linen sheets rather than on a bed of scratchy hay was enough to lighten Luke’s mood. But it wasn’t the sheets alone that made his mouth curl into something approaching a smile. He’d missed a comfortable bed, but if that was all he’d wanted, he could have slept in another bedroom. What he really wanted was Eleanor in that bed with him. There was more to marriage than good food and a clean house, dammit! He’d been more patient than most men would have been, more patient than he had any reason to be.

He’d lay down the law tonight.

As Luke rode into the ranch yard his eye was caught by movement at the back of the house. The sheets he’d just been thinking about were hanging on the line, their pristine whiteness catching the last of the afternoon sun. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen a row of sparkling white sheets hanging on a line. Maybe somewhere in town, he decided. It sure hadn’t been here, not since his mother died, anyway.

His fingers tightened on the reins, drawing the gelding to a halt. Between housekeepers he and Daniel had done wash as seldom as possible and
had dried their wet clothes by draping them over a bush. When he’d married Eleanor, one of the first things she’d done was to replace his mother’s rotted clothesline and chase the spiders out of the bag of wooden clothespins. It hadn’t taken long to get used to the pleasures of having clean clothes again, holes patched and tears mended.

When it came to the cooking and cleaning Eleanor had certainly done everything a man could want. She’d turned the house into a home again and managed to restore the kind of civilized atmosphere his mother had always insisted be maintained. His mother would have liked Eleanor, Luke thought, watching the sheets undulate in the breeze. Lucinda would have admired Eleanor’s spirit, and probably would have thought that banishment to the barn was the least he deserved, he admitted reluctantly.

The back door opened and Eleanor came out. She walked toward the clothesline. Luke settled back into the saddle, admiring the sway of her hips beneath her skirts, the way the sun picked out red highlights in her dark hair. He felt desire stir in him, a hunger that went deeper than the purely physical.

He missed her, dammit! It wasn’t just her presence in bed that he missed, though he damn sure
missed that. He missed seeing her smile, missed the sound of her laughter. If he’d known marriage was going to be such a complicated thing, he’d have brained Daniel and dragged
him
to the altar.

Eleanor began taking the clothes off the line. Luke stayed where he was. He’d never given much thought to the act of hanging clothes on a line, but he thought about it now. She lifted her arms to unpin a sheet. Her breasts lifted with the movement. The stiff breeze that blew across the prairie might be perfect for drying clothes but it had other, less prosaic benefits, like the way it molded her rose-colored skirt to her legs, outlining the lush curves of her body. Luke’s mouth went dry. His jeans were suddenly uncomfortably snug.

He started to nudge the roan into a walk, but a figure hurrying out of the bunkhouse stopped him. Gris Balkin moved across the ranch yard at a pace that made Luke’s eyes widen. Three days ago Gris had stepped in a prairie dog hole and twisted his ankle so badly they’d had to cut his boot off. Eleanor had helped bind the ankle and Luke had told him to stay off his foot and out of a saddle until the swelling went down. Gris hadn’t been happy about being confined to the ranch yard, but he’d been spending his time working on the tack, doing some much-needed repairs.

And cozying up to
his
wife, Luke thought, his eyes narrowing as the younger man hobbled over to the clothesline. Eleanor turned and smiled at Gris, and Luke’s mouth tightened with annoyance. If she wasn’t going to smile at
him
she had no business smiling like that at another man. Ignoring the small voice that pointed out that it wasn’t Gris she was angry with, Luke nudged his heel into the roan’s side and moved toward the couple standing by the clothesline. Eleanor was his wife. Maybe some people needed to be reminded of that.

“Let me help you with that, Miz McLain.”

Eleanor turned to look over her shoulder, frowning when she saw Gris limping toward her. “You’re supposed to be resting that ankle,” she told him, her tone gently scolding.

“If I stay settin’ in one place much more, I’m likely to take roots.”

“I doubt that,” Eleanor said, laughing softly. “From what I’ve heard, cowboys are about as rootless as they come.”

She bent to pick up the clothes basket, but Gris was there before her, lifting it and carrying it farther down the clothesline. With a nod of thanks, Eleanor continued taking the clothes off the line, dropping the pins into the big pocket on her apron.

“I’d guess that’s so for a goodly number of us, ma’am,” Gris said, his voice thoughtful. “I’d never given much thought to settling down myself. My folks was always movin’, always wantin’ to see what was over the next hill, so I ain’t never stayed in one place too long. I figured that’s the way it’d always be but lately I’m startin’ to think it might be kinda nice to have a little place of my own, maybe a woman, too. If’n I could find one that’d have me,” he added with a self-conscious grin.

“Is there someone in particular you’re thinking of?” Eleanor asked over her shoulder as she plucked a pair of clothespins from the line. It took Gris so long to reply that she turned and looked at him, her brows raised in question. “Do you have a girl in mind?”

“There’s a girl,” Gris admitted in a strangled voice. “I met her last time I was in Denver.” Having got that much out, he suddenly waxed eloquent. “She’s got yellow hair and big brown eyes. Made me think of a palomino filly I seen once.”

Eleanor swallowed a chuckle and kept her expression solemn. “She sounds lovely.”

“She’s the prettiest thing I ever seen,” he told her fervently. “Her daddy owns a dry goods store, though, and I doubt she’d even look at me.”

“You won’t know until you try. I think a woman would be lucky to have you,” Eleanor said. She folded one of Luke’s shirts and set it in the basket, her expression taking on a wistful edge. Gris’s dream wasn’t that different from her own—a home and someone to love.

“I ain’t much to look at,” he observed with painful honesty. “Women set store by such things.”

Eleanor turned to look at him, her expression considering. Gris ducked his head self-consciously. “A woman wants a great deal more than good looks in a man. She wants someone who’ll love her and cherish her, someone who’ll make her feel as if she’s the most important thing in the world to him. Besides, I think you’re a very handsome man,” she added, stretching the truth just a bit. Gris wasn’t likely to make a girl’s heart melt at first glance, but there was a certain appeal in his gap-toothed smile and the natural friendliness of his gaze.

Gris looked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted wings and a halo, his brown eyes hopeful. “You mean that, Miz McLain?”

“Mean what?” The unexpected addition to their conversation made Gris and Eleanor both jump.

Luke ducked between a pair of sheets to confront them. He’d deliberately angled his approach so that the clothes hanging on the line blocked their
view of him. He wasn’t sure why he’d felt it necessary to employ tactics more suited to fighting Indians than to approaching his wife and one of his ranch hands. He hadn’t expected to catch them exchanging guilty secrets. But, seeing Eleanor smile at Gris, he’d felt something he couldn’t quite define, something that had made him want to punch Gris in the nose and then throw Eleanor over his shoulder and carry her off.

“Mean what?” he asked again when neither of them spoke.

Eleanor drew a deep breath, trying to still the rapid beat of her heart. She very much wanted to believe that it was sheer surprise that had increased her pulse but, the truth was, her heart was inclined to behave erratically whenever Luke was near. And the fact that she was angry with him—which she still was—didn’t seem to make any difference at all.

“I was just offering Gris some advice,” she said repressively.

“Oh?” Luke’s gaze swung from his wife to Gris. There was nothing overtly unpleasant in either his tone or his look, but Gris was suddenly put in mind of a fish he’d seen a picture of one time—a huge creature with rows of fierce-looking teeth bared in a smile a lot like the one his boss was giving him now.

Gris swallowed hard, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. He shifted, trying to take weight off his bad ankle. He wished suddenly that he’d stayed in the bunkhouse, working on the tack. “I was goin’ to carry the basket for Miz McLain,” he said, feeling the need to offer an explanation.

“I can manage just fine, Gris.” Eleanor came to his rescue when Luke said nothing, but simply stood there looking at him. “But thank you for offering.” Her smile made Gris flush and duck his head. He mumbled something incoherent, shot Luke another uneasy look and then turned and limped away.

“He’s a nice boy,” Eleanor said, her nerves jumping with the knowledge that she and Luke were alone.

“Boy?” Luke’s dark brows rose. “He’s at least six years older than you are. Hardly a boy.”

“He seems young to me.” She shrugged and turned back to the clothesline. It took a conscious effort to keep her fingers from trembling as she tugged a clothespin free.

“What were you offering him advice on?”

“This and that.” She moved a little farther down the line, anxious to put some distance between them, but he simply moved with her, seeming to loom over her.

“What kind of this and that?” Luke’s tone was pleasant, but there was an underlying note of steel in it.

Eleanor’s back stiffened. Wasn’t it just like him to ignore her for two weeks and then subject her to this catechism over her conversation with Gris? She dropped the last of the clothes into the basket and turned to face him, bracing her hands on her hips and giving him a look that made no secret of her annoyance.

“If you must know, Gris was concerned that he might not be handsome enough to attract a woman.”

Luke’s brows shot up and he was foolish enough to snort with laughter. “That skinny kid?”

“As you pointed out, he’s considerably older than I am. Old enough to be thinking about having a family.”

“I guess that’s so.” Luke no longer cared what Gris had been talking to Eleanor about. She’d unbuttoned the top button on her bodice, revealing the hollow at the base of her throat and the pulse that beat there. His fingertips itched to feel that soft flutter of movement, to hear her sigh with pleasure when he kissed her there. Her hair was drawn back into a prim bun at the back of her head, but a few unruly curls had drifted loose to caress her forehead
and neck. It would take only a moment for him to loosen her hair so that it tumbled over his hands in a thick, dark curtain. He could slide his fingers into that curtain and tilt her mouth up to his. A few kisses and she’d melt into his arms.

“I think it’s sweet that Gris is thinking about going courting.” Eleanor’s words broke into Luke’s increasingly lustful imaginings. “Maybe he’ll bring his girl flowers or read her a poem.”

The idea of Gris reading poetry made Luke grin. “I don’t think the poetry is such a good idea. The one time I heard Gris recite anything that rhymed, it was after he’d drunk half a bottle of rotgut whiskey. And the poem wasn’t exactly fit for a lady’s ears. He’d better hope the flowers do the trick.”

“Maybe he could learn a poem that was fit for a lady’s ears,” Eleanor said.

Luke was distracted by the way the sun was picking out red highlights in her hair and missed hearing the tightness in her voice. “Maybe. But I just can’t picture Gris spouting poetry.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe he could see if his girl would like to draw straws,” she said. The silky tone of her voice was reminiscent of a diamondback’s warning rattle just before it struck. “How would it work, do you think? If she draws the short straw, she has to marry him?”

“That had nothing to do with you,” Luke snapped, seeing his fond hopes of seducing his wife disappearing.

“So you’ve said.” There was more weariness than anger in her tone. She bent to pick up the willow clothes basket. “I have bread in the oven,” she said as she brushed by him.

Luke stared after her. She kept throwing that damned short straw into his face as if there was something he could do to change it. He wanted to be angry with her. But he suddenly remembered what she’d been saying to Gris when he’d approached them, before she’d known he was there.
A woman wants a great deal more than good looks in a man. She wants someone who’ll love her and cherish her, someone who’ll make her feel as if she’s the most important thing in the world to him.
And when she’d talked about Gris going courting, bringing flowers to his girl and reading poetry, there’d been a wistful note in her voice that made him feel lower than a snake’s belly.

He hadn’t done much by way of courting. He’d seen Eleanor, decided she’d fulfill his needs for a wife and made his offer. He’d been relieved that she hadn’t insisted on all the nonsense that usually went along with getting married. He had, he realized uneasily, done exactly what Sean Mulligan had told
him he couldn’t do—he’d chosen a wife in much the same way he’d have chosen a horse. He’d looked for good lines and a pleasant disposition and had been arrogant enough to think that that was all there was to it.

The back door shut behind Eleanor, and Luke turned away from the house. He was frowning as he walked to where he’d left the roan ground hitched. Marriage wasn’t turning out to be quite as simple as he’d expected, but he was willing to adapt his thinking some. There was more than one way to skin a cat—or to win a wife.