The Bartered Bride (The Brides Book 3) (12 page)

FIFTEEN

M
ae ran around with the puppy as Annie watched the fire eating away at her dress. Jem and Ray had set then whole thing in a blackened cut-off kettle, about waist high on her, if she’d had the nerve to approach it. Instead she stood back at what she judged to be a fair distance and watched. The fabric hadn’t caught very quickly at first, but seemed to fight off the flames, unwilling to cooperate. Now, plumes of choking smoke rose up from the drum. Trails of black and white twisted together as they climbed high into the sky and faded to nothing.

The smoke wafted toward her at times and filled her nose. It filled her mouth too, bringing with it the bitter taste of burnt charcoal and ash.

She wondered if Ben’s old clothes were absorbing the smell too.

Would she go to bed tonight with the smell in her hair, the taste still in her mouth? Was that all she’d have left of her dress?

It was funny how something that was once so important could turn to nothing just like that. Gone. No longer important. A dress that was once all she had left of her life in Tennessee, and now it was useless. Making embers. It was like her old life going up with it.

Should have made her sad.

Should have bothered her more to lose it.

On another day she might’ve taken time to wonder why it didn’t. She even vaguely realized it
should
have meant more.

But all she felt was sort of free instead. Even standing there in Ben’s awful clothes that had made her so upset earlier. Even when Ben himself emerged from the stables and marched over to join them, wincing at the smell. Skunk and smothering smoke.

“What’s that?” he asked Ray, waving his hat in front of his nose.

“You don’t want to know,” Ray said. He shook his head, watching the kettle drum as if it were a mine full of dynamite ready to blow. He glanced cautiously at Annie, which was what he’d been doing since the moment she’d stepped off the back porch and seen the puppy dragging her dress around in the dirt. Cautious. Waiting for her to do something. What, she wasn’t sure. Cry, perhaps? He seemed incapable of relaxing with her standing there. Maybe she should have gone back inside, but she couldn’t make herself move away. She had to see it through to the end. All of it. Till the last of the fire burned down.

Ben looked at her too. He smirked slightly at the sight of her in his old trousers and nightshirt and all, then grimaced at the stench in the air and moved on. It may have been her imagination, but he seemed to skirt wide past Jem and avoided meeting his eyes. He headed back to the stables muttering something about his mare, whom Annie gathered was named Peaches, and whom she also gathered was expecting a foal. He seemed concerned, but reluctant to talk to Jem about it. Jem, she knew, would’ve helped out if he was needed. She knew him enough by now to know that.

For his part, Jem simply watched Ben walk away, then turned his attention back to the fire. He stirred the drum up with a long stick, giving it air to breathe.

The flames flared up at him, and he stepped back neatly, avoiding getting burned. Or catching his beard on fire.

Now that would’ve been a shame. Annie cared neither here nor there about beards, but she wouldn’t like to see Jem get hurt.

She watched as Ray joined Jem by the fire and said something to him she couldn’t hear, but she didn’t miss the way they both glanced over at her.

Pretending a disinterest in the men’s conversation she didn’t feel, Annie bent to “talk” to Mae and the puppy. The little girl rattled on excitedly about how the puppy was going to be called Sugar now. Annie smiled and scratched the puppy behind its ears. She made a long S sound—her best approximation of the word “sugar.” Mae beamed at her.

Annie stayed low and kept patting Sugar.

Mostly, her ear was fixed in the men’s direction.

“
Creed?
” the older man was asking now, pulling his chin back a bit. She had the impression he was rejecting the notion, but there was something thoughtful in his gaze too, some sense that maybe he was hearing a true story. “Not Creed.”

“It was a bad situation, Ray,” Jem replied quietly, poking at the fire. “You would’ve done the same.”

They were talking about her, she sensed. It seemed Ray was questioning Jem about how he got stuck with her.

“Would I?” Ray asked, shaking his head skeptically.

“I think you would’ve.”

“Don’t be so sure, Jem. Don’t be so sure.” Ray glanced at her again and went inside, probably back to his kitchen, where it seemed he spent most of his time.

Annie was left crouching next to Mae, with the puppy lolling between them, panting from its exertions. It had something else now, batting at it with its front paws. Looked like a dirt-colored ball. Where it had found that, Annie didn’t know.

Jem’s gaze turned thoughtful and sort of inward, like he wasn’t truly looking at her anymore. Was he regretting his decision to help her?

He threw the stick into the drum.

The fire was done. Her ruined dress gone.

Annie lowered her gaze and found Mae staring at her strange attire with a marked curiosity. She mimicked Annie posture, crouching back on her heels. Annie forced a light smile and took the little girl’s hand, gesturing that they should return to the kitchen together.

“You can choose some clothes from Lorelei’s things.” Jem came up beside her unexpectedly, making her jump. He practically towered over her. “I’ll track them down just as soon as I get this pup cleaned up. Ray’s got breakfast waiting for you,” he added encouragingly.

Annie nodded, suddenly shy. Unable to look up at him.

She began to rise and suddenly Jem’s hand was in hers, supporting her as she stood.

Warm tingles swam up her arm and filled her everywhere. Their eyes met, and in his she found a flicker of awareness that stunned her. He was looking at her. He
saw
her.

Annie was struck anew by the color of his eyes. A sort of smoky blue, not unlike the sky before a storm. How dark his brows and eyelashes were. She studied him, rapt. They were quite attractive eyes. She felt herself falling into them, everything else fading away. Time stopped. It was as if they shared a passing of souls. A fanciful thought. As if you could share your soul with someone just looking at them. Nevertheless, the feeling lingered.

His hand around hers was so warm, so strong. A hard-working kind of hand. A man’s hand. Lightly dusted with hair across the back of his fingers. Tanned.

She ran her thumb over the back of his, marveling at the rush of sensation that small motion brought. How had she never realized how sensitive her thumb was?

And then she had the almost irresistible urge to bring his hand up to her face and brush a kiss across his knuckles. Not that she would ever do something so daring, so improper and—and
forward
. She shouldn’t have even touched his thumb in such a way. Why, it was practically intimate the way it had felt, like something a real wife might do.

But he was a stranger. For one short moment it might’ve felt like she’d known him forever, but that wasn’t how it was between them.

Oh, Lord. She’d
touched
him.

Annie blushed fiercely, becoming aware of Jem’s gaze on her, watching her in a rather fascinated fashion. She watched as his expression shifted through a range of emotions: surprise, confusion, and finally a shuttered expression she couldn’t read.

In a similar way his gaze registered awareness of her regard.

He dropped her hand as if it had become a hot ember and stepped back.

He scooped the puppy up under one arm and muttered something about doing nothing this morning but cleaning up after it. The ball was bobbling about from Sugar’s mouth, a bit of cloth nipped between its sharp puppy teeth. Annie saw now that the ball was not a ball at all, but a bundled pair of socks that had been tossed through the dirt and turned brown with it. Her socks. Or rather, Ben’s old socks. Annie briefly closed her eyes in recognition, effectively releasing herself from the spell of Jem’s beautiful eyes and all her fanciful thoughts about souls passing back and forth in a simple gaze. The truth was, she was a woman standing there in bare feet, dressed in the world’s most awful clothes.

What could Jem have possibly seen of interest in
her
?

Nothing but her own wild imagination, that’s what.

“Ray has food,” he said, as if forgetting he’d already told her that. “Go on and eat. I’ll fetch one of Lorelei’s trunks from the attic as soon as I get back from cleaning up this critter.” He raised the puppy slightly, then turned and strode off toward the stables. The faint scent of skunk hung in the air. Probably still clung to Sugar’s fur too. Did he intend to bathe the pup in a trough? Annie wondered. Or maybe he intended to give Sugar a good rubdown and brush out her fur. She wrinkled her nose, hoping whatever he did worked.

Mae watched after her father, then faced Annie with a sense of purpose radiating off her.

She reached out and tugged at Annie’s trouser leg. “Mae some.”

By which Annie took to mean the little girl wanted a pair of trousers too.

She shook her head regretfully, wishing she could explain that they weren’t proper clothes for a young lady. That they weren’t proper for her either.

Annie sighed in defeat and pantomimed a spoon in her hand bringing imaginary food to her mouth. Her stomach responded with a sharp rumble.

Mae frowned at first, obviously not pleased by Annie’s refusal to get her a pair of trousers too, but then she brightened.

“Spoon.” She beamed, eating from her own imaginary spoon. How easily she’d accepted Annie’s inability to speak. “I show you,” Mae added, with an air of importance.

Already the little girl knew Annie was different from other adults and had adjusted her actions and speech accordingly.

As if it weren’t strange at all.

It was really quite amazing, Annie thought as Mae put her hand in hers and skipped toward the back porch, tugging Annie along laughing helplessly behind her. For a moment she almost forgot she was wearing boy’s clothes, almost forgot she didn’t look anything near proper. Almost.

Annie could feel Jem’s gaze resting on her and wished she had a dress, something she’d look pretty in. Although perhaps that was too much to hope for.

SIXTEEN

J
em found Lorelei’s trunks in the back of the attic, just as Ray had speculated. Ben must’ve brought them up, or perhaps some of the younger ranch hands had. Why else wouldn’t Ray know exactly where they were?

The scent of old things had met his nose as soon as he’d pushed open the attic door. It had that smell of old barns and cellars, of places closed off for a long time. The air sat around heavy-like. He almost wished he didn’t have to breathe, but he couldn’t hold his breath forever. He took in a mouthful of stale air, full of dust motes.

A bad memory came up of the old shanty he’d shared as a boy with his pa, only here there was no stench of dried-up whiskey spilled on the floor.

Jem pushed the memory aside with a grimace of distaste and held the lantern aloft to light his way, following a winding path past trunks, wooden crates, and old furniture.

The space ran half the length of the house above what Jem supposed was now Ben’s wing. The ceiling had open wood rafters, from which dusty spider webs hung in various states of use and disuse. It was tall enough to stand in, but only just, giving the overall feeling of entering a darkened house built for a very small person.

To the far end, near where Jem figured Ben’s parents’ room would’ve been below, he came upon what almost seemed to be a parlor room. There were pieces of furniture laid out in a seating arrangement, even what looked to be a complete tea set on a cart. Jem wondered if they were Mrs. Castle’s old things, from days before the styles changed. Perhaps a grandmother’s items lovingly kept but not displayed downstairs. It had that feel about it.

Jem set his lantern on a carved walnut side table with spindly claw legs, which was set next to a rather fancy little settee covered in a richly patterned brocade, featuring a forest scene of harts standing stock-still and a hunter on horseback. Though of superior quality, it looked like mice had gotten to it over the years, for one corner had been ripped open and bits of grayed white stuffing dangled to the floor.

What must it be like to have treasures from grandmothers to store up, or from a mother even?

Jem felt very foreign standing there. His life bore no resemblance to this place—his past life anyway.

But this was the life he’d hoped Mae would have, what her mother would’ve wanted her to have someday, had she lived. And he was going to give it to her. That was why he’d returned after all, wasn’t it? Despite all the fortifying talk to himself about helping Ben out with the horses. There was that too, but now that he was around Ben...

Well, that notion had soured a bit.

Ben couldn’t stand the sight of him.

Sweat trickled into Jem’s eyes. The salt burned, and he brushed it away with his sleeve.

Land’s sakes, was it hot up here. Hot and oppressive.

He looked around for Lorelei’s trunks, eager to find what he needed and leave as quickly as possible.

He recognized them then, tucked to one side of the settee under the eaves, one stacked on top of the other though there was plenty of room for them to have been stored side by side. The two of them were nearly identical, except for one being slightly smaller, both made of navy blue leather with polished brass fittings. Lorelei had always appreciated pretty things, even in her luggage.

He seemed to remember the dresses and underthings being in the larger trunk, so he freed that up and opened the lid to it first. Feminine fabrics sprang up as soon as he did. Skirts, petticoats, and other fluffy white things with white ribbons and bows. Just as he’d thought.

Things he didn’t want to see.

His throat closed up as he reached in to run his fingers through the mess of them, stirring them up even more. They hadn’t been packed all that carefully, seeing as he’d been the one to do the packing. Lorelei would’ve taken her time and made sure everything was folded just so and packed in tissue, or whatever. He’d taken no such time, wanting only to have the task over as quickly as possible.

Even now a wave of sadness struck him as he recalled that time.

These were her things.

Things she’d never wear again.

Things that smelled faintly of cinnamon, because she’d liked to bake.

And just like that he could see her: Lorelei standing in her kitchen, an apron tied at her waist. Delicious scents filling his nose. Daylight spilling in through the window behind her. Lorelei writing her stories. Lorelei dancing. Riding. Smiling.

Jem pinched his nose and spun to pace away, angry with himself.

He didn’t want to remember.

He didn’t want to feel anything.

Just as quickly, he turned back and slammed the lid shut, catching a bit of frilly white lace in the lid, but he ignored it and secured the latches without mercy. With an air of almost military precision, he hefted the trunk as best he could to one side and gathered up his lantern with the other, letting it hang from his fingertips so he could support the trunk.

He couldn’t think of these things of Lorelei’s anymore.

It would be better—for his peace of mind—if he didn’t.

* * *

After her late breakfast, Annie heard Jem calling down the stairs for her to come up. The sense of urgency about him sent her scurrying from the kitchen and up the stairs.

She spied him disappearing into her room and followed him inside.

He pointed to a beautiful midnight blue trunk with brass fittings sitting on the rug at the foot of her bed.

She looked at him, trying to recapture even just a tiny bit of that moment when they’d shared that oddly stirring gaze out back behind the house. The one where she’d felt they’d shared souls.

Though she wanted nothing more than to experience that same sense of closeness again, she read no signs of openness in Jem’s face now.

It was like losing something.

“Take anything you like.” There was pain in his voice. “It’s yours now.”

But Ben
, she thought, tugging at her trouser leg and putting on a scowl like Ben’s.

Jem actually smiled, what she could see through his full beard. His eyes lit with a wry flash of humor.

“I’ll take care of Ben,” he promised. “He won’t like it, but it’ll do him good to shake him up a bit.”

Annie wondered if Jem realized what he’d said and how it could as easily apply to him. She’d married a man clearly still grieving for his dead wife. He’d loved Lorelei. He
still
loved her.

Annie chewed thoughtfully at the inside of her bottom lip, pondering the situation she’d gotten caught up in.

Jem tugged on the brim of an imaginary hat, then seemed surprised that he wasn’t wearing one. He left quickly, apparently wanting to get away from Lorelei’s trunk of clothing as quickly as he could.

Annie opened the lid and took out dress after dress and laid them on her bed. They all looked far too pretty to alter, but one glance told her she’d definitely have to cut them up. She didn’t even have to hold them up against her shoulders to know they were too long for her. Lorelei had been much taller. Her figure had been fuller. More womanly. Annie was quite aware of her own distressingly juvenile stature and slight build, so that wasn’t saying much.

Upon reaching the bottom of the trunk, she lifted out an unframed photograph of a young lady.

A wedding photo, likely.

The paper was thick in her hands, glossy and smooth. The rusty brown tones of the daguerreotype were almost as lovely as a watercolor painting. They invited the imagination to paint in other colors: a powdery blue backdrop, pretty rose-colored ribbons, lots of airy white lawn and lace, more powdery blue and white in the oval cameo at her neck...

Lorelei
.

It had to be her. Her dark hair curled in rings like Mae’s, except hers were upswept in a decidedly more womanly fashion. Her expression was dreamy and very romantic, but a spark of intelligence lit her eyes. A rather mysterious smile curved her lips. She looked happy. Young. Like she was looking forward to a new life.

Annie set the photo on her side table, all too aware that she’d never had an image like that taken of her. And what would be the point of it? She didn’t look like
that
and never would.

That
was a picture to give to a man in love.

Lorelei stared up at her, so
alive
. Annie flipped the image facedown and turned resolutely to the dresses.

She ran her hands down the length of each full skirt. What wonderful fabrics. So colorful. So feminine. Many decorated in flowers. One midnight blue cotton frock—a color Lorelei must have favored—was liberally spotted with fanciful daisies and bees. And—Annie caught her breath—one very striking red day dress.

But no.

She should take the least pretty one. This brown skirt paired with that simple white lawn shirtwaist would do. They were obviously meant for working on a ranch. Plain, serviceable. The sheer lawn fabric cool enough for summer. Nothing special.

Annie tested the fabric of the skirt between her fingertips. It was heavy with quality, a tight weave. Worn from many washings, but only so much as to make it more comfortably soft.

Brown.

So as to disappear into the world.

Become nothing.

Tempting in its own way. That was what she always did. It made life simpler—felt
right
.

So why did she keep looking over at the red dress? The one that was a rich dark cherry red with cheerful buttercups sprinkled all over it. A dress to be seen in. To feel pretty in.

Lorelei must’ve been real pretty.

Her picture had told Annie that.

But then, pictures could only say so much. Lorelei’s clothes said more.

She had enjoyed life, enjoyed pretty things. She’d lived. She’d loved. She’d had a full life.

You could have a full life too
, Lorelei seemed to whisper from her own past.
Take it, take life. You only get one.

Heaven was a gift for later.

Life was a gift for now.

But she should be grateful for what she had, shouldn’t she? She had breath now to live her life. Their situations might not be ideal—hers and Jem’s—but she did “have” Jem and Mae now. The family that had once been Lorelei’s.

It seemed logical that taking anything more from Lorelei would be wrong. That made the most sense. She’d already taken so much.

And yet...

And yet Annie had the strangest prompting within her to choose the pretty cherry red dress. It seemed
right
.

Whatever dresses she didn’t use would just go right back in a trunk. They’d be shut up again for who knew how long. Maybe until Mae was a young woman.

Annie scooped up the red dress, held it up before her. She crossed to the corner, padding over the rug’s cushiony softness in her bare feet, and looked at herself in the mirror. The same tall mirror that had distressed her so much earlier. Now it welcomed her. When had her hair turned that rich warm brown color? It seemed the light from the window skipped off it, bringing out a brighter sheen of gold.

Or maybe it was the buttercups bringing out a golden tone?

She felt a movement behind her—felt eyes on her—and turned.

There was Mae, just inside the door.

“Pretty,” Mae said, staring at her with eyes as wide as buttons.

Annie nodded and smoothed the waistband against her.
Yes, it’s a pretty dress.

“Put it on.”

Annie nodded again.
I think I will.
She paused and made a cutting motion with her fingers.
But I have to cut it down first.

Mae wrinkled up her nose, apparently displeased with her silent answer.

“Now,” she demanded. To some, her tone might’ve seemed disrespectful, but Annie could see a little dimple showing in Mae’s rounded cheek. And the little girl’s eyes twinkled in a playful way.

All right
. Annie spun her finger, indicating that Mae should turn around. Then, as quick as that, Annie changed into the dress and tossed the boy’s clothes behind her bed. The cool surprisingly airy fabric fell around her like a dream. Annie had many, many years of sewing and alterations behind her from working for the Ruskins. Her practiced eye told her the dress needed quite a lot of work before it fit properly on her smaller frame. This was going to require more than a bit of tucking here and there. Annie quickly catalogued what needed doing: shortening the waist, a significant hemming, and other possibly ambitious things, like reshaping the long sleeves into a shorter cupped sleeve—but it was lovely nonetheless.