Short Straw Bride (12 page)

He snatched his hat up on the way out the front door, slapping it on his head as he strode across the yard to the barn. There were lights on in the bunkhouse and he briefly considered Daniel’s suggestion that there was room for him to sleep there. But he discarded the thought as soon as it came. He’d be damned before he’d have every cowboy on the place knowing that his wife had thrown him out of their bed.

The barn was warm and smelled of fresh hay and animals. The gray gelding recognized the sound of Luke’s footsteps and put his head over the stall door to snort a greeting.
At least my horse is happy to see me,
Luke thought sourly. He stopped to rub the gelding’s forehead.

He still couldn’t believe Eleanor’s display of temper—a temper he’d have just about bet the ranch she didn’t possess. It seemed Daniel was right—there wasn’t a woman born who didn’t throw fits.

He wasn’t an unreasonable man, Luke thought, feeling somewhat aggrieved. He could understand how a woman might not much like to hear that she’d been married because her husband had drawn a short straw. Not that it seemed to him that it should matter all that much. They were married, and that was all there was to it. But a woman might not see it that way and he could understand Eleanor being upset. If she’d cried, he would have been more than willing to dry her tears.

But instead of tears, she’d tried to kill him. Might have succeeded, too, if he’d been a little slower. Luke fingered the shallow cut on his forehead. It was little more than a scrape but the severity of the injury was not the point. The point was that
Eleanor had inflicted it, along with more bruises than he could count.

Eleanor—his quiet, biddable bride.

He still couldn’t believe the display of temper he’d witnessed. Damned if she hadn’t looked as if she’d have been happy to see him dead.

“She could have killed me,” he said aloud.

The gelding nodded his head in sympathy. Or maybe he was just trying to make sure Luke’s scratching fingers reached a particular itch.

“How was I supposed to know that she had a temper like a catamount with its tail caught in a trap?”

The gelding snorted.

“Females,” Luke muttered in a tone laced with disgust. “I should have stayed single.”

She should never have married Luke McLain. That was the one thought that penetrated Eleanor’s storm of weeping. She’d have been better off staying with her aunt and uncle. At least
they
hadn’t drawn straws for her as if she was a…an unwanted package that someone had to take.

She caught her breath on a sob. No, that wasn’t true. They’d never made much secret of not wanting her. If they could have drawn straws to get rid of her, they might have done so, despite Uncle Zeb’s aversion to gambling. So she’d gone from a
home where she wasn’t wanted to a husband gained because he’d lost a silly, childish gamble.

Gulping to stem the flow of tears, Eleanor rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Her chest ached with a mixture of hurt and anger. Was there something wrong with her? Had she committed some sin, that she should be punished by being forced to live where she wasn’t wanted?

But Luke hadn’t said he didn’t want her. He hadn’t said that at all. She sat up, her breath hitching in her chest with residual sobs. What was it he’d said?

I didn’t have to marry
you.
I just had to marry someone.

So once he’d drawn the short straw, he’d still had to choose a bride. And he’d chosen her.

Eleanor slid off the bed and padded across the room to get a clean handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Her breath still catching a little, she sat down on the wooden rocking chair in the corner next to the window and drew her bare feet up under the edge of her nightgown.

Luke had married her by choice.

She rolled that thought around and felt some of the tightness in her chest ease. However he’d gone about deciding to get married, he hadn’t married
her
as a result of drawing a short straw. And as he’d pointed out, it wasn’t as if they’d married for love.

The reminder had been painful but she couldn’t deny the truth of it. Luke had never said he loved her. And if she had been foolish enough to fall in love with him—and she wasn’t entirely ready to admit that she had—then she couldn’t blame him for her change of heart.

The problem was, she’d gone into this marriage with too many stars in her eyes. She’d told herself that she was being practical but she’d really been a romantic child, dreaming about happily ever after. The past two weeks should have beaten that out of her. Hadn’t Luke made it abundantly clear that he’d wanted a wife for cooking and cleaning and not much else?

Well, for a few other things, she admitted as her glance fell on the bed. Now the covers were rumpled from their struggle, but most mornings their tousled condition was caused by something else entirely. Certainly, she had no complaints about that part of her marriage. And she didn’t think Luke did, either.

A short straw! Eleanor winced at the thought. It was a far cry from her romantic fantasies. But it was done and they were married and she was simply going to have to make the best of it. Now that
her temper had cooled a bit and she was able to think a little more clearly, she had to admit that things could have been worse.

Whatever his reasons for marrying her, Luke had proved to be a kind husband so far. He’d treated her gently. Most of the time, she amended, aware of a tenderness in her nether regions. She shifted uncomfortably in the hard rocker, her eyes darkening with renewed anger at the remembered abuse he’d delivered.

Of course, he
had
been provoked, she admitted, thinking of the bloody scrape on his forehead. Perhaps she shouldn’t have thrown that shoe. Eleanor considered that possibility for a moment and then shook her head. He’d deserved that—and worse. Her only real regret was that she hadn’t managed to inflict more damage. Luke should never have drawn straws over something as important as marriage.

No doubt he’d been congratulating himself on having gotten a docile bride, one who’d cause him little trouble while providing the sons he wanted. She’d given him little enough reason to think she was anything other than that these past two weeks.

“If you act like a doormat, you’ve no cause for complaint if people treat you as such,” she muttered to herself. She stood, putting one hand to her
bruised derriere, her small chin firming in a way that might have made Luke nervous if he’d been witness to it.

She couldn’t change the past. She was married and that was all there was to it. And marriage to Luke McLain, no matter how it had come about, was certainly better than being an unpaid and unwelcome drudge in her aunt’s home. It was even, though she’d admit it only to herself, better than finding herself married to Andrew Webb and his four children.

No, she couldn’t say, even with anger still churning inside her, that she was sorry she’d married Luke, But it was time and past that she made a few changes around here. More than simply dusting and cleaning. Luke might have got himself a bride and, God willing, he’d have the sons he wanted, too, she thought, setting a hand against her stomach. But he was going to find out that she wasn’t quite the biddable girl he might have thought her.

Of course, considering the encounter just past, he might already have a hint of that. Eleanor smiled at the thought and crawled into bed, feeling better than she’d have thought possible an hour ago.

L
uke wasn’t sure what to expect from Eleanor when he saw her at breakfast. But since a pile of hay had proved a scratchy and uncomfortable bed, he’d had plenty of time during the night to contemplate the possibilities.

His favorite image was of Eleanor repentant over her display of temper the night before. He’d walk into the kitchen and find his breakfast laid out for him—mounds of fluffy biscuits, bacon sizzling on the stove, fried potatoes in the warming oven and Eleanor poised to cook his eggs. Those big dark eyes of hers would be soft and warm—and just a little red from crying tears of regret. Her smile would be a little trembly around the edges—her look asking for forgiveness.

He might not give it right away, he decided, touching the wound on his forehead gingerly. But eventually, he’d forgive her and they’d make up. A
faint smile curved Luke’s mouth as he considered just what form that making up might take. When he was a boy, he’d once heard his pa say that making up was the best part of having a quarrel. He hadn’t understood it then, but he could certainly understand it now.

Maybe Eleanor would offer to kiss every bruise she’d inflicted, he thought, letting his imagination run wild. She could start with the scrape on his forehead and work her way down to the bite on his thigh. The image brought a new ache to join the ones he already had.

The hay rustled under Luke as he shifted uncomfortably on his scratchy bed. Dammit all, he didn’t see why making up had to wait until morning. What was he giving her time to think about, anyway? He was her husband. He had certain rights, and the least of them was the right to sleep in his own bed. If Eleanor didn’t want to share it with him, let
her
spend the night in the barn.

Righteous indignation had him sitting up, ready to go back to the house and inform his recalcitrant bride of his decision. He was halfway to his feet when he suddenly saw Eleanor’s soft brown eyes, flashing with rage but with an underlying hurt in them. He sank back on the blanket, the righteous indignation fading into something uncomfortably
close to guilt. Maybe he’d allow her some time to think things over, after all.

He just hoped that her temper would wear off by morning. If it hadn’t, he might be wise to insist on her tasting any food she served him. Mad as she’d been, he was likely to find himself with arsenic in his biscuits.

As it turned out, Luke didn’t have to worry about the possibility of finding hazards in his food. Nor did he have to concern himself with his bride’s mood. Eleanor solved both problems for him by not making an appearance at the breakfast table. Which suited him just fine, Luke told himself as he sliced bacon into a skillet. The last thing he wanted was to deal with a temperamental female first thing in the morning.

He’d just poured his first cup of coffee when his brother came in. The past few days Daniel had been having breakfast at the main house.

“There’s coffee,” Luke said, by way of greeting.

While Daniel poured himself a cup of the syrupy black brew, Luke sliced more bacon into the skillet.

“Where’s Eleanor?” Daniel asked, after taking his first swallow of coffee and finding it nearly
thick enough to chew and strong enough to strip paint off a house—just the way coffee should be.

“She’s sleeping in,” Luke said shortly.

As if on cue, they both heard the sound of footsteps in the bedroom overhead. Luke clenched his teeth and cut another slice of bacon, nearly taking a piece of his thumb with it.

“She feeling all right?”

“She’s fine.”

There were a few minutes of silence while they both watched the bacon sizzle in the pan. Luke knew his brother well enough to know he wasn’t likely to let it rest there. He used a fork to pull the bacon out of the pan and then began cracking eggs into the sizzling fat that remained. Daniel found a loaf of the bread Eleanor had made the day before and began cutting thick slices off it. It wasn’t as good as the fresh biscuits Eleanor would have made, but fried in the bacon fat, it would be filling.

“Was she upset about what she heard last night? About us drawing straws, I mean?”

Luke had known the question was coming and he had an answer ready. “She was a bit upset, but I talked to her.” That was true enough. They
had
talked.

“She didn’t throw a fit?” Daniel brought the bread over and tossed it in the skillet as Luke removed the eggs.

“She saw reason,” Luke said firmly, hoping it was true. He got out two plates and set them on the table, dividing the scorched bacon and overdone eggs between them. A moment later Daniel plopped slices of fried bread on each plate and they sat down to eat.

“I thought she might throw you out,” Daniel said as he picked up his fork. “Figured we’d be seeing you in the bunkhouse.”

“I’m master in this house,” Luke said with repressive dignity. Eleanor hadn’t thrown him out; he’d decided to leave.

“Seems odd, though,” Daniel shook his head as he started to eat.

“What seems odd?” As soon as he said it, Luke had the feeling he was going to regret the question. He was right.

“Well, if Eleanor had thrown you out, it would have seemed natural. But if she didn’t—you bein’ master in this house and all—it’s a puzzle how you got that hay in your hair.”

Daniel looked up from his plate, his grin pure devilry. He was not measurably disturbed by the glare Luke sent in return.

*    *    *

Eleanor set bowls of potatoes, green beans simmered with a chunk of bacon and a mound of hot biscuits on the table. A big platter of fried steaks sat on the back of the stove, keeping warm. Gravy simmered in the big iron skillet, almost thick enough to be poured into the bowl she had ready and waiting. Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked to the door and stepped outside to ring the dinner bell.

There was a faint tremor in her fingers as she went back to the stove to stir the gravy. She hadn’t spoken to Luke since their quarrel the night before and she wasn’t sure of the best way to handle this first meeting. She’d thought about little else all day and she was no closer to an answer now than she had been this morning.

The men piled into the kitchen just as they always did, unwashed and unkempt. After two weeks she could now connect names with faces and was starting to know them as individuals apart from the large mass of male bodies invading her kitchen once or twice a day.

She poured the gravy into its bowl and carried it to the table. Neither Luke nor Daniel had appeared yet and, apart from a few sidelong glances and a polite nod or two, the men didn’t seem aware
of her existence. Eleanor set the gravy down on the nearly full table and stood watching the usual display of flying fingers as they grabbed at the food before them. They ignored the serving utensils in favor of the more expedient method of picking up the entire bowl and dumping a portion of its contents onto their plates. Biscuits flew across the table like fat golden brown leaves caught in a tornado.

When Gris and Joe grabbed for the same steak, there was a brief tug-of-war across the tabletop before Joe’s fingers slipped loose, leaving Gris the triumphant owner of the piece of meat. He grinned, displaying a mouthful of biscuit and potatoes.

“Ya’ll just ain’t fast—ow!”

His sentence ended on a pained yelp and the steak landed on the tabletop with a plop as Eleanor’s big wooden spoon caught him across the knuckles. The bowl of potatoes pinged against the wood as Slim’s wrist received a sharp rap from the same source. Never slow on the uptake, Shorty Danvers hastily dropped the biscuit he’d just grabbed and moved his hands prudently out of reach.

There was a stunned silence as they all turned their eyes toward the small but fierce-looking woman who stood at the end of the table. Eleanor
held the wooden spoon like an avenging angel’s sword. Her dark eyes sparkled with anger as she looked at the men before her.

“I’ve seen hogs with better manners,” she said sharply. “You come to this table and fall on my food like wolves on a freshly killed deer. You walk in here without so much as wiping your feet and track dirt and manure over my clean floors.” She used the spoon to point to the trail of mud that led from the door. All heads turned and looked guiltily at the evidence.

“I’m right sorry, ma’am,” Slim said. “Never thought about it none.”

The humble apology was not enough to mollify her. Eleanor pointed the spoon at him and Slim pressed his back against his chair, actually seeming to pale beneath the force of the gesture.

“Did you think about washing the filth off your hands and face?” she demanded.

“No, ma’am.” There was a chorus of mumbled agreement as her eyes swept the table. Guilty looks were cast at grimy hands.

“Were you all raised in barns?”

“No, ma’am.” That was Shorty. “Leastways, I wasn’t, and my mama would’ve been madder than a wet hen if I’da come to her table without washing.”

“Then why do you come to
this
table in that condition?” Eleanor demanded, pointing her spoon at his dirty hands.

Though it was Shorty she was looking at, the question was directed at all of them. But no one said anything, leaving it to Shorty to come up with an answer that might satisfy their diminutive interrogator. He glanced uneasily at his companions, hoping for assistance. When none was forthcoming, he swallowed and lifted his eyes to Eleanor’s face.

“I don’t reckon there’s a good reason, ma’am. ‘Ceptin’ maybe, us bein’ just men for so long, we done forgot the manners our mamas taught us.”

The others nodded their agreement with this theory, fixing their eyes hopefully on Eleanor’s flushed face. There’d been some doubts about the wisdom of Luke’s decision to get married but, in the two weeks she’d lived on the Bar-M-Bar, the men had decided that the boss had made himself a pretty good deal. His bride not only made biscuits light as a feather but she had a way of smiling at a man that made him think twice about the benefits of being a bachelor. None of them liked the idea of the little missus being permanently riled at them.

“Do you think you could remember some of those manners if you tried?” Eleanor asked, her
voice softening a little. Ridiculous as it was, considering the tough cowboys sitting before her, she suddenly felt as if she was scolding a bunch of youngsters.

“Yes, ma’am. I reckon we could.”

Shorty stood and the other men followed his lead, then they trooped back out the door to wash their hands at the pump. Eleanor’s eyes followed them, skidding to a halt on the two men standing just inside the doorway.

Luke.

And Daniel, she added belatedly. Peripherally, she was aware of the amused sparkle in her brotherin-law’s eyes. Obviously, they’d been there long enough to overhear at least a portion of the scene just past. Equally obvious was the fact that Daniel had found it highly amusing. Luke’s reaction was not so easily read, at least not in the darting glance that was all Eleanor could manage in his direction.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone or anything back down Shorty Danvers,” Daniel said, brushing past Luke as he walked farther into the kitchen. “Most of those men would tackle a herd of buffalo bare-handed if the notion struck them, but they looked meek as lambs after that dressingdown, Eleanor.”

“I don’t see any cause to eat like a pack of wolves,” she muttered.

She picked up the steak Joe and Gris had used in their brief tug-of-war and set it back on the platter. Using a towel to wipe the table where it had been gave her a good excuse to avoid looking at Luke as he pulled out his chair at the table.

“You want to check behind our ears to see if we washed well enough?” he asked in a slow drawl that sparked Eleanor’s anger all over again, making her momentarily forget the cool, calm image she’d determined to present to him.

“It might not be such a bad idea at that,” she snapped.

She jabbed a fork into the platter of steaks, wishing it was some portion of her husband’s anatomy instead. Just seeing him brought memories of last night’s quarrel rushing over her, most vividly the humiliation of finding herself facedown across Luke’s lap.

“It seems to me that the hands aren’t the only ones who’ve forgotten how to behave like civilized men instead of unreasoning brutes.”

The glance that slashed his way left Luke in no doubt as to the direction of her thoughts. It didn’t sound as if having had a day to think things over had inspired a mood of repentance in his bride. He
stared at the fork that stood upright in the middle of a thick steak and knew she’d just as soon it was stuck in him.

Across the table he caught Daniel’s questioning look, caught also the amusement in his eyes, and knew Daniel was remembering his determination to get himself a docile bride. Daniel didn’t know the half of it, Luke thought, rubbing his fingers absently over the bruised place on his thigh where Eleanor had sunk her surprisingly sharp little teeth into him.

If she hadn’t had other things on her mind, Eleanor would have been amused by the careful display of manners at the dinner table that night. Not that any of them were ready to dine in high society, she thought, watching Gris pick up the gravy bowl and carefully pass it across the table to Joe. But at least there seemed no danger of blood being spilled in the melee to fill plates.

She ate almost nothing herself. Every time she glanced in Luke’s direction she was reminded that they hadn’t exactly settled anything the night before. She was annoyed to see that Luke ate with his customary hearty appetite. Obviously, he wasn’t going to let a little thing like beating his wife get in the way of his dinner, she thought angrily. A small voice of reason suggested that perhaps “beat” was
a trifle strong and pointed out the damage she’d inflicted in turn. Eleanor did her best to ignore it.

The men departed as soon as they’d eaten and, despite her preoccupation, Eleanor was amused by the careful way each of them thanked her for the meal and wished her good-night.

She was grateful when Luke and Daniel went with them. The longer she could put off talking to her husband, the better, as far as she was concerned. And as for Daniel, she was in no better charity with him than with his brother. It had been the pair of them drawing straws to see which would have to get married, and it was humiliating to think that someone else knew the circumstances of her marriage.