Joe's Wife (3 page)
Authors: Cheryl St.john
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Nonfiction, #Historical Romance, #Series
"Yes."
She merely stared at him.
What should he say to her now that he was here? He didn't have any experience with kids. "Did your mother tell you I'd be coming?"
She nodded again. "I stayed clean till you got here. Me an' Molly was getting kind of tired of staying clean an' all."
"Well, you look very clean to me."
"Thank you. You look clean, too. Them's my manners and Mama said I best mind 'em."
Her piping voice and serious expression enchanted him. He found himself wanting to hear her say more. "How old are you?"
"Five and a half. My birthday's behind Thanksgiving."
"Oh."
The tiny creature hopped to her feet and placed the doll on the bed. Her wrists and hands were as delicate and frail-boned as anything he'd ever seen. A stiff wind would blow her clean to
He crossed to sit on the corner end of the mattress, wondering what to say next. He glanced at the cloth doll. "Is that Molly?"
She bobbed her head. A smattering of pale freckles across her golden skin reminded Tye of Lottie, but her dark hair and lovely wide eyes were a mesmerizing combination all her own. No wonder Lottie adored her. No wonder she feared for this child's welfare being placed in the hands of strangers.
Not that
he'd
ever laid eyes on her before. But the unknown was often more frightening than the familiar, and Lottie'd known Tye for many years. He was the only person she could turn to. The only person she trusted.
How pathetic.
"My mama's bad sick," she said, adjusting the doll's dress and arranging her against a pillow.
What must she think of this frightening situation? She'd grown up over a saloon and only now moved to a house so her mother could die. "I know."
Eve climbed onto the bed and dangled her feet over the side.
"Sometimes I'm scared to go to her room and see her." Her silvery voice and tiny chin trembled.
Oh, Lord, what if she cried? What if she asked him something he didn't want to answer or didn't know how to answer? "That's okay," he said to reassure her.
"She don't look a whole lot like my mama anymore, but she sounds like her, and she loves me like her."
Her observation seemed too mature. But he'd noticed Lottie barely looked like herself. Her dreadful appearance must be frightening to her daughter. "She loves you very much."
"She said someone would come for me before the angels came to get her."
Tye's throat closed up tight. He didn't know how to handle this. He'd seen so many people suffer and die, he shouldn't have had any feelings left when it came to death. He'd fought and killed with his own hands. He had blocked out recrimination and sorrow. What did he know about a child losing a mother?
Nothing. But he knew a lot about being a kid without a father. It wasn't really the cruelty of classmates and townspeople that hurt so much at this age; a kid didn't have anything to compare his experiences with. It was the memory of those humiliating slurs years later that ate at a person's gut.
What kind of burden had Lottie asked him to carry? What kind of mess would he make of it, of this kid's life, if he went along with her request?
Nothing worse than life in an orphanage. Unwanted kids didn't even get to eat the foods they needed to grow healthy. They got the scraps, the dregs. And it was never enough.
Tye had learned to use his fists and his wits for survival. But this little girl? He didn't even want to think about it. He had only to look at Lottie to see what would become of her.
Unless someone stepped in.
"Did you come for me, Mr. Hatcher?"
Tye looked up. Knowing what was happening, yet unable to do anything to prevent it, he fell headlong into her black-lashed, blue-violet gaze, eyes that reflected trust and innocence and waited for him to make the decision that would shape the rest of her life. She had no one in the world. No one but him.
Heaven help her.
"Yes, Eve. I came for you."
Chapter Three
B
efore
dark, Gus and Purdy returned from the hills with the welcome news that others who'd been fighting a brushfire since yesterday had been successful in quelling it and that they'd be following. Meg had a hearty stew and corn bread warming, as well as rice pudding with raisins and currants in a milk pan in the oven.
Freshly washed, his thinning gray hair combed back in streaks on his sun-browned head, Gus entered the kitchen without knocking, as was customary on the Circle T. He did as much cooking as Meg did, coming in early each meal to grind the beans and start the coffee.
"Fire's out?" she asked.
"Yup. Got a big patch of brush up by Lame Deer and was spreadin' to the
Anderson
place, but we stopped 'er."
"I could smell it on the wind this afternoon." Meg had kept herself busy, the thought of the fire spreading this far licking at her already edgy nerves.
"Seen you got the cows milked," he said, opening the oven and stirring the rice pudding, which had turned a smooth caramel brown.
She nodded. "Thought Patty was going to kick me good, though."
Joe's Newfoundland "puppy," which he'd brought home from a buying trip, only to watch rapidly grow to the size of a Shetland pony, had slipped in behind Gus and now stood with a chunk of firewood in his mouth.
Meg propped the door open with the wood. "Good boy, Major. Get more."
The dog immediately bounded for the woodpile, returning several times and dropping the wood into the firebox. Gus had taught him the trick, perhaps with the idea of saving his own steps, and the dog had caught on the way he did to everything.
After several trips, Major sat before Meg, his snout quivering in anticipation. She rewarded him with a lump of sugar, and he found a place in the corner of the long room to settle. He caught much of his own food: rabbits and squirrels. Meg had thought the practice disgusting at first, but had since grown appreciative due to the fact that she couldn't afford to feed another mouth.
The rest of the hands arrived minutes later: Purdy, along with the "boys," Aldo and Hunt Eaton, brothers in their teens, who'd been too young to go to war and needed to work to eat. Their parents lived on an acreage near town with several younger children. For lack of grown men, Meg had hired the brothers on as reps a couple of years ago.
Joining them as the day progressed came reps from nearby ranches, stopping to eat before heading to their own places. She fed them gratefully, this bedraggled bunch of cowboys who'd been too young or too old to fight, or who'd only recently come home to ranches in need of more attention than they could afford.
All were respectfully solemn in deference to her widowed state and her mourning clothing, and they soon headed out.
Purdy was shorter and wirier than Gus, a long gray handlebar mustache his distinguishing feature. He walked with a hitch now, and lengthy stretches in the saddle enfeebled him for days. Tomorrow he probably wouldn't be able to do much around the place, and the others would work harder to make his slack unnoticeable.
"I'm gonna take care o' the horses now." He grabbed his hat.
"I'll do it," Gus offered.
"No," Meg said immediately. "Aldo and Hunt, will you see to the horses, please? You two—" she shooed Gus and Purdy with a flour-sack towel "—hit your bunks. I'll finish up here."
"Yes, ma'am." The boys got up from the bench and headed for the corral. Gus and Purdy followed.
Another hour passed before she had the dishes washed and beans soaking for tomorrow's
At the sound of a horse and buggy, she paused in scooping warm water out of the stove's well. She peered out the back door, but the rig must have continued to the front.
Meg walked through the house and opened the seldom used front door. Niles Kestler stood on the grouping of boards that could only be called a porch in the broadest of terms. "
Niles
! How nice to see you."
She probably smelled like cows and lye soap. Belatedly, she whisked off her spattered apron. "Won't you come in?"
"I don't know if I should," he said, stepping from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
He'd been to their home many times when Joe had been alive;
Niles
and Joe had been pals since their youth. But her widowed state changed that situation. For propriety's sake, she shouldn't have asked him in.
Which was ridiculous. Gus and Purdy and the Eaton brothers had the run of her home, with nary a thought to impropriety. But to meet his standards of decorum, she stepped outside. "What brings you?" she asked.
"I thought I'd pay a call and see how you're doing."
"I'm doing fine."
"Good."
"How is Celia?"
"She's well, thank you."
Niles
's wife was expecting a baby, but men and women didn't speak of such delicate things.
"Harley spoke with me this week," he said.
So that was why he'd come. Harley'd gone ahead with it.
"I can get you a sizable price for this land, Meg. There are investors who will snap it up in a minute."
Her civility fell to the wayside. "Oh? And would they be among those select few Northerners who got rich off the war?"
Niles
bristled. "The point is, Meg, you need the money. You can't keep going without some help."
"Well then, how about a loan until I get this place back on its feet?"
"You must know I can't do that."
He could probably do it out of his own pocket. He would have done it for Joe. The thought angered her. As Joe's wife she'd had respect because he'd been respected. As his widow she had sympathy and little else. She'd known
Niles
her whole life, yet he wouldn't consider an investment in her.
Exasperated, she turned and gazed across the expanse of dirt and grass to the corrals, where several horses stood outlined in the moonlight. "And you must know I can't sell. You know what this place meant to Joe."
"I
do
know," he said quickly, and then added, "but Joe's not here anymore."
"And what a nice commission you could make off the sale of Joe's ranch." She didn't bother to withhold the derision in her tone.
She turned back to look at him. "You know you have to do it sooner or later," he said. "Don't be a foolish woman. Why not do it before you've sold everything that means anything to you?"
"The ranch is what means everything to me," she replied. "And it's worth any sacrifice."
He stepped back and placed his smart, narrow-brimmed felt hat on his head. "All right. Do it your way. But you'll be coming to me soon. And by then you'll be in dire straits."
"Well," she replied matter-of-factly. "I'll do everything else in my power first."
"Good night, Meg." He climbed up to the leather seat of his fancy buggy and guided the horse back toward town.
Meg folded her arms beneath her breasts and watched him disappear in the darkness. Her anger had only been a temporary disguise for hurt and fear, and as it dissipated, tears stung her eyes. She set her mouth in a firm line to keep the desperation at bay.
Movement caught her eye. Gus stood silhouetted in the doorway on the side of the barn where the men slept in roughly finished rooms. She waved, knowing he'd been checking on her visitor and her safety. He returned the wave and closed the door.
Exhausted, she entered the house, dipped her water and washed up in her tiny bedroom before donning her cotton gown, extinguishing the lamps and climbing into bed.
She'd thought about her situation every day and night since Mother Telford and Harley's insistence. It wouldn't improve. Without a man to take on much of the physical work, she couldn't keep the place going.
And the Telfords would keep trying to wear her down.
The more she'd thought about it, the more she'd resigned herself to the fact that a husband was exactly what she had to have. For the past several nights she'd gone over the limited possibilities. All the bachelors were too old or too young, except for three. Jed Wheeler ran one of the saloons, but just the thought of marrying him made her shudder. Besides, he wouldn't know anything about ranching.
Colt Brickey was a year or two younger than she, but had come home from the war teched in the head. He could probably work, but she needed more than that—she needed someone who could help her make decisions.
The third and last was Tye Hatcher.
Still not husband material in society's eyes, but the only prospect capable of working and planning. He limped, but that shouldn't keep him from riding. If Purdy could do it at his age, surely Tye could. He'd done ranch work since he'd quit school to take care of his mother. He'd worked as a rep and helped with roundups, and from everything she'd seen, he seemed honest and hardworking.
Once she had narrowed her options down to him, the thought of actually carrying out her audacious plan gave her pause. What would he think of a woman so bold as to propose marriage? Did it matter?
If he said no, it was doubtful he'd tell the town of her foolish plan. And even if he told, the townspeople wouldn't believe him. And if they did, what did she really care? Holding on to the ranch was all that mattered, and at this point, she didn't have any choice.
Meg recognized the bleak emptiness of this bed where she'd lain alone for the past few years. For too short a time a man's soft snore had accompanied the night. Now she lay awake listening to the sounds of the house and the wind along the timberline.
She was contemplating bringing a stranger to the ranch. To her home. To Joe's bed. Plenty of women married men they didn't know, she assured herself. Tye Hatcher had always been polite and respectful in her presence. He wasn't bad looking. Not at all. It wouldn't be like Joe, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
This was business, after all. Meg was a determined woman. She could bear a good many things to get what she wanted.
Tomorrow was Sunday. He didn't attend church, but she'd heard talk that Tye often called on Reverend Baker in the afternoon. She would seek him out. And she would ask him then.
Sunday visits were a custom carried from the East. As a boy, Tye had seen families gather for Sunday meals and an afternoon of visiting and play, and always on the outskirts, he'd wondered what that was like. His mother had never been accepted among the respectable residents of Aspen Grove. She and Tye hadn't even gone to church because of the rude treatment she received. But on Sunday afternoons she'd taken him to Reverend Baker's, where she'd had someone who treated her kindly. Apparently it was acceptable for the preacher to receive her calls; he was, after all, responsible for her immortal soul.
But Tye never remembered any talk of saving his mother's soul on those visits. He remembered only the tiny measure of acceptance and the pleasure that gave his mother, and he would be forever grateful to the preacher for that kindness.
The first time he'd run into the reverend upon his return, the man had greeted him warmly and extended an invitation to come by for pie and coffee. The preacher had been a widower for more than twenty years yet had the most well stocked pantry and cleanest house in the county, thanks to the dutiful parishioners.
As his mother had done, Tye always waited for the dinner hour to pass. Often the reverend accepted an invitation and returned midafternoon. Then Tye would wait for any "real" callers who might stop by to pay their respects. And then, when everyone had gone home to their families, he would call on Reverend Baker.
Today, as a late afternoon sun warmed the porch, they shared a peach cobbler Mrs. Matthews had dropped off and drank strong black coffee.
"Ah, nothing like a fresh pie and good coffee," the preacher said, leaning back in the wicker chair and folding his hands across his belly. "And then a bit of man talk."