A Bride in the Bargain (12 page)

Her body warmth felt good. She felt good. When was the last time he had a woman this close? Eleven years? No. More like twelve.

He’d forgotten what it was like. How good it felt. Her head lolled back. Glancing down, he allowed himself a small smile. She slept with her mouth open. Now, why didn’t that surprise him?

The rain began again in earnest. He pulled his jacket more securely over her shoulders, then tucked her under his arm, shielding as much of her as he could with his body.

She sure was a pretty little thing. He looked down again. And that waspish tongue of hers would help her hold her own with the boys.

He sighed. They were sure going to rib him about his choice of bride. It was just as well he was marrying the old woman, though. Wouldn’t be hard to maintain a chaste relationship with her. Wouldn’t have been near so easy if he’d married this one.

He tightened his grip some. He’d have to lay down the law with the boys. Make sure they didn’t bother her. She obviously had some aversion to getting married, so he’d make sure they kept their distance.

She snorted, smacked her lips, then snuggled further into his side, smashing his hat between them.

Who’d hit her? he wondered. A relation? A guardian?

From the condition of her clothing and the sparseness of her bag, she’d clearly stumbled upon hard times. To think she didn’t even have a coat, just a raggedy cape that served no purpose whatsoever.

Still, she was articulate. Well-spoken. At some point or other, she’d been looked after by someone with an education.

He shook his head. Was she running from something? From someone?

Tugging his hat free, he set it on top of his head, then pulled her face against his chest and allowed himself to enjoy the chance to hold her. It’d most likely be the last time he ever would.

He smoothed the hair off her face, then took a fortifying breath. He’d make certain it was the last time.

Leon’s paper soldiers faced each other across the dark wood of the kitchen table.
. . .

“Hold your fire, men,” he said, pushing forward a soldier he’d named after one of the town’s local officers. “Wait until the enemy gets close, then aim low.”

The rebel line advanced. When all were in position, Leon picked up his drum and tapped out a slow beat.

“Steady . . . steady . . . and FIRE!”

The drumsticks thundered on the snare as he sucked in his breath and blew down the entire rebel line.

“Victory!” he shouted.

Anna slammed both hands down on the table, tumbling two of the Union soldiers. “Would you please stop that infernal drumming and help me?”

“Hey! Look what you did. You knocked down Charlie Church and Marvin Onerdonk.”

“I’m going to wipe out the entire regiment if you don’t put that stupid drum away.”

Leon rose to his full height—all four feet of it—then proceeded to march around the kitchen singing, “We’ll Hang Jeff Davis on a Sour Apple Tree,” keeping time with his drum.

“Mama!” Anna hollered into the parlor, where their mother sewed for hours every day. “Leon won’t help me pick lint.”

He pounded harder. “Picking lint is for girls.”

“It’s for bandaging the soldiers and it’s your duty to help.”

“My duty is to be a drummer for the troops and I can’t do that unless I practice.”

“You’re never going to be a drummer, Leon. Papa has forbidden it. Now, if you don’t stop your pounding and help me, I’m going to . . . I’m going to knock over your soldiers.”

“You better not.”

She raised her hand. “Then stop. I mean it. Stop drumming right now or else.”

Leon doubled his tempo.

She swept her arm across the table, sending the soldiers in all directions.

“Nooooo!” He dropped his sticks. “That was everybody we know.”

“It’s not either, and you’re nothing but a big baby crying over a bunch of paper nothings.”

“I’m not crying!” Wrenching the drum from his shoulders, he dropped it to the floor and charged.

Anna screamed as Leon brought her to the floor, scattering her pile of lint. She kicked and shoved, but even though she was fifteen to his ten, she could not overcome the combination of wiry muscles and indignation.

Mama came from around the corner. “Anna. Leon. Stop it. Stop it at once. Both of you.”

They ignored her, of course. Mama reached for Leon just as Anna swung out her fist, catching her mother on the chin. Mama staggered back, falling against the wall, then crumpled to the floor.

“Look what you did!” Leon jumped up, a look of horror on his face. “I hate you, Anna! I hate you! And I’m not staying here another minute. I’m joining the war.” He grabbed his drum, then ran from the room and out the screen door.

“Leon!” she cried. Yet she didn’t run after him. She couldn’t. Not with Mama hurt and on the floor.

“Leon!” she cried again. “Come back!”

But all she could hear were his footsteps running . . . running . . . running.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

“Anna. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

She jerked awake. Rain pelted her face. The pounding of Leon’s retreating footsteps continued. “Leon?”

“It’s me. Joe. Joe Denton.”

“What?” Darkness as thick as molasses surrounded her. “Where’s Leon?”

“He’s not here. No one’s here. It’s just you and me and Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?”

“My horse.”

She swiped the water from her eyes, trying to see through the darkness. His horse? The rhythmic pounding of Shakespeare’s hooves penetrated her consciousness. Hooves. Not footsteps.

Her heart began to slow. Tears mixed with the rain on her face. “Where am I?”

“You’re on a wagon in the Washington Territory.”

“Yes, yes. I know. I meant
where
in the Territory am I?”

“Oh. We’re about two miles from my home.”

“It’s dark.”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? Won’t we get lost?”

“No.”

Anna took stock of his arms cradling her and with a jolt realized she was on his lap. She jerked upright.

Tightening his hold, he held her in place. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m perfectly fine. You can let go now.”

“It’d be warmer and drier if you stayed put.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“I know. You’ve got the coat. I was worried about me.”

“Here. You can have it back.” She reached up to shrug it off and discovered her arms were in the sleeves and its front had been buttoned.

Denton stayed her hand. “I was joking. Sort of.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I don’t want it back. But I would appreciate it if you’d stay close. Two miles can last a long time when you’re wet and chilled.”

She gently pushed and his arms fell away. Cold immediately rushed in.

“I’ll give you your coat.”

“Absolutely not.”

She scooted off his lap, then sucked in her breath at the puddle of water that had collected on the seat beside him. The frigid moisture soaked through the fabric with alarming speed.

He pulled his hat low, but didn’t offer it to her this time.

Leaning to the right, Anna stretched. A low groan escaped before she could suppress it.

“You all right?”

“Just a little stiff.” She carefully straightened her legs as best she could. “How long was I asleep?”

“You missed dinner and supper.”

“You stopped to eat and didn’t wake me?”

“I never stopped. Just drove right through. So we made good time. Since we’re almost home, though, I’d rather eat there if you can wait?”

“Yes. That’s fine.” She pushed her hair off her forehead. “Has it been raining the whole time?”

“It just started up again.”

She squinted, but couldn’t see more than a vague outline of Shakespeare. She couldn’t imagine how Mr. Denton could see.

“Who’s Leon?” he asked.

She gave him a sharp glance.

“You called out his name in your sleep.”

Flipping up the collar of the jacket, she burrowed into its folds. “My little brother.”

“Is he still in Massachusetts?”

“He’s dead.”

The rain had chased away the sounds of any nocturnal creatures, leaving behind only the incessant splattering of raindrops on the trees, the puddles, and the passengers of the wagon.

“The war?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

A gust of wind shook an extra dose of moisture from the leaves overhead.

“Me too,” she whispered, and huddled deeper into his jacket.

By the time he pulled the wagon to a stop, Anna’s fingers, toes, and ears ached from the cold, her nose was running, and she couldn’t stop shaking.

“Come on,” he said, lifting her from the seat. “I’ll start a fire for you, then take care of Shakespeare.”

Her legs buckled as soon as they met with solid ground.

He scooped her up, then took the porch steps.

She was so stunned at being suddenly airborne, she forgot to get an impression of the house from the outside. But the moment they stepped indoors, the sweet vanilla smell of what had to be twinflowers overwhelmed her.

Mr. Denton navigated his way through the dark house, passing through one room, down a corridor, and then into another room. Again, the scent of twinflowers bombarded her.

“Here, hold on to this.” He guided her hand to a hard surface.

She braced herself while he set her on her feet.

“You all right?” Large hands bracketed her waist.

“Fine, fine. I’m perfectly fine.”

He released her, but his hands hovered.

“You really needn’t fuss,” she whispered into the quiet. “I was just unsteady for that initial moment.”

“Well, I have a towel on a rack right over there. Will you be okay if I step away?”

“Yes, of course. I’m fine.”

He took four quick steps, then was back with a towel. She tried to free her hands, but the sleeves of the jacket were too long.

Before she could protest, he cupped her neck and tilted her chin up with his thumb, then began blotting the moisture from her face.

She stilled in surprise. This was no rough rag, but a real towel—soft, absorbent, and smelling of sunshine. He patted her forehead, her nose, her jaw, then swiped the hair away from her face.

She closed her eyes and reached for her jacket buttons, but again, the sleeves imprisoned her hands.

Denton quickly slipped the buttons free and pushed the coat from her shoulders. It slid down her arms and onto the floor.

Raindrops tapped against glass windows. Only actual glass, not greased paper, would make that particular sound. The man obviously had done well for himself. Very well.

Opening her eyes, she could just make out Denton’s silhouette. He was close. Too close.

He pressed the towel against her neck. She reached up to take it from him, her hand colliding with his.

After a slight hesitation, he stepped away. A few seconds later she heard the scraping of flint and steel.

He lit several lanterns, then went to work on a prelaid fire. They were in a kitchen. A large, well-supplied kitchen dominated by a modern stove with a ventilated oven on one side, a fire and roaster on the other, and a hot plate over all.

Scales, spice boxes, sugar, and biscuit canisters lined a set of shelves next to boilers, saucepans, and stew pans. A corner cupboard stocked with spatterware picked up the same colors as the braided rug, but it was the high level of craftsmanship that drew her attention back to the cupboard.

Never had she seen such an elaborate piece in a kitchen. Had Mr. Denton made it, or did he merely chop down the trees and leave the carpentry for someone else?

The fire crackled, its woodsy smell overtaking that of the aromatic flowers. She glanced at a cup of wilting, pinkish-white twin-flowers on a table. They were bell-shaped with two blooms per stem hanging down like tassels. Each mirrored the other. She wondered if, like honeysuckle, they made good syrup or sorbet.

Crossing the room in large strides, Denton slipped through a side door, then returned with a large pot of water.

She lifted a questioning gaze to him.