“Beg to differ, Miz Haynes. I won't see those kids shamed by divorce. Myself neither. Everybody in Platte County heard you say those vows.”
The harsh truth set Minda's skin prickling, but she'd never let him suspect her despair. Sitting up as straight as she could in the jostling wagon, she hissed into his ear. “But surely I get some say in all this. No judge would hold me to this vow. I never married a family, Mr. Haynes. And I never intended to marry
you
.”
He exhaled deep. “Homestead's just ahead.”
Like a prim little ghost, Norman Dale's white farmhouse glistened through the nightfall. The infamous rosebushes bloomed along the porch, and Minda groaned. Tending roses was almost as much work as tending children. What else was she going to find at the end of this ride? Already her wedding day had been fraught with the unexpected.
“I'll tend the livestock,” Brixton said gruffly, but she noticed how gently he lifted the children from the wagon. He tossed her one final stare while he unhitched the horse.
Maybe she'd feel good slamming the door on him.
Holding Priscilla, she stepped inside. The house was neat as a pin, but humble and spare. In spite of clues all day long, she couldn't help the disappointment that whittled away the last of her dreams. Then guilt prickled again and weighed hard. Maybe she'd just been greedy, wanting a successful husband and a fine house after all those years of scrimping and saving. Maybe she was getting just what she deserved now.
“I can wash up Ned and change Silly's britches for you, ma'am, if you want me to,” Katie said soberly. The child's calling her ma'am nearly broke Minda's heart. Young children deserved a mother.
“Do you often care for your brother and sister?” Minda asked, remembering Norman Dale's doubtful mention of a housekeeper, “or did your papa have some help?”
“I'm a big girl. I help since Mama passed.”
Since Mama passed
? Goodness, that had been last autumn. Had this small girl been burdened with grown-up chores and responsibilities all this time? Minda caressed the thin little shoulder. “But what about neighbors? And school?”
“Well, Miss Marylaura next place over does the wash, and Miss Gracey sees to us sometimes,” Katie said, then started to grin. “But these days Uncle Brix cleans us up just fine. He braids my hair and doesn't pull a bit.”
“Braids?” Minda said aloud, unable to hold off her surprise. Did that hard-hearted rogue have a soft spot somewhere? But Minda needed another answer. “School?”
“I couldn't get there much. The schoolmaster says I have a fine brain. But with Papa out in the fields, Silly needed me.”
Little Ned looked up at Minda. “Uncle Brix sings me a lullaby. And I can wash my face all by myself.”
The little boy's big blue eyes bore holes into her soul. He and his sisters deserved a family. But their uncle, her husband, made no bones about leaving. Was he such a scoundrel that he didn't care?
Yet, what sort of villain braided a little girl's hair and sang lullabies to a motherless boy?
“I'm happy you're here,” Katie said softly, and Minda's breath caught in her throat. Was she herself a scoundrel who didn't care? She pondered over the sight of her husband outside.
He leaned against the barn in the dusk with a flask to his lips, sipping whiskey like he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. For a moment, she hated that he drew comfort from a cold, hard flask, longing instead to hold him close with womanly warmth and hope. But then he stood up tall and strong, like he needed nobody at all.
Other than someone to tend the kids.
A thought irritated her mind, like a rash she couldn't stop scratching. Dreams she had come here to make real lay unfulfilled in a fresh-dug grave. All she'd done now was start a new chapter of an old theme, caretaker with no one to take care of her or give her love. She wanted something more.
Right now she had a debt to pay, but she was smart and resolute. Brixton might be handsome and the children endearing, but this was a husband and household she didn't want. Someday she'd find someone to cherish her.
She sighed. It just wouldn't be today.
* * * *
Night fell soft and silent, and the snuffles of Norman Dale's livestock comforted Brixton with memories of the trail. Lord, he couldn't wait to get back.
Habit had him walk as quietly as he could from the barn to the house. Even the tiniest noise sparked stampedes on the trail, so his footsteps were cautious wherever he went.
At the back porch, he set down Minda's valises and paused to peek in the back window. Her lush curves swayed beneath the simple dress as she readied the children for bed, and he couldn't fill his vision fast enough. The memory of her soft, sweet cheek brushed his fingertips once more, and his heart raced and his groin throbbed. It was the heartbeat he didn't like; a man desiring a beautiful woman was just what a man did. But a galloping heart might mean a man felt something deep inside.
Even worse, night after night alone on the trail, he'd keep seeing her shining hair sweep across Ned's shoulders while she kissed the top of the lad's head. So he pulled out his flask and drank deeper. It was too much like having a family of his own, something he swore he never needed. Suddenly, he missed his brother more than he'd missed anything.
Until this minute, he had never felt shy about coming through this door without a knock. His wife's current disposition gave him pause, but he had goods to deliver, and damn, the kids just might like one of his good-night songs. His tongue clicked. Truth to tell, his bride would think him nothing but a rowdy bridegroom wanting a tumble between the sheets. Already she'd tried to disgrace him by letting a room at the boardinghouse just for herself.
Another long, hard swig consoled his throat as it emptied his flask. Damn woman. Anger, not desire, flared in his gut now. To calm down, Brixton ran his arm up the smooth window casement. In his mind, it was a fine white house no matter what his bride thought. While Ida Lou was breeding little Paul, he'd helped Norman Dale construct this very house. He loved the feel of well-lathed wood underneath his fingertips almost as much as he loved the feel of a woman's skin.
Then his heart darkened as a lightning bolt of bad memories crashed into his mind. He'd built Esperanza Eames a house much like this one, on the six-hundred acres her rich pa had deeded them in Butter Creek, Texas. Built every inch with dreams. Pounded each nail with hope. Carved her a bedstead worthy of a queen.
The week before their wedding last fall, he'd come home early from round-up and found her in the arms of Rawley Snate, a cowboy who'd come by the ranch for a couple days’ work.
With a passion she'd never shown Brixton, she kissed her lover, letting Snate's hands roam where they had no business. She was barely clothed, nipples bright as rose buds atop snowy breasts. A pain both old and new darkened his mood even now. Since Brixton respected a bride's right to wear white, Esperanza's womanhood had been a mystery to him. He'd looked toward their bridal night with lust as well as love.
The scene played itself again behind his eyelids, killing another piece of his spirit.
In disbelief, he'd hauled Snate away from his bride and bloodied the man's nose, watched the lies gleam in her eyes while she dressed, explaining Rawley away as an old flame who meant nothing, nothing at all.
His belly ached one more time, and it wasn't the whiskey. That had been the worst of it, her ruining what they'd had for something that meant nothing at all.
No matter how Esperanza touted her wiles on him and begged his forgiveness, Brixton Haynes bid his bride a bitter good-bye and turned his back. Still, there'd been a time when she'd been his world and his future.
Right now, he watched another bride who didn't want him. He shook his head, took another swig to drown his feelings. But his flask had emptied, and he needed a refill from Norman Dale's supply. The decision stumped him though, whether to knock or go right in.
After a couple of half-hearted taps, he walked into the house. Minda's eyebrows rose.
“Been tucking the kids in these last days,” he said. “Thought you might like some help.”
“Oh. You do, do you? I think I know how to put children to bed. Besides, isn't this my new job?” She stuck her pretty nose high in the air, but he saw the sparkle of tears first. Then she ruffled Ned's hair while she put a cup of milk in front of him.
Damn, why couldn't his wife attend to him like that? Milk wasn't as good as whiskey, but her soft hand would sure improve his mood. His body heated like flame and tornado combined, just imagining those slender fingers traveling over him. He changed the subject and his train of thought fast.
“I brought your valises. And Gracey packed up a hamper of food.”
“That's kind of her, considering.”
Little Ned looked up at Minda. “More chocolate cake?”
Brixton rejoiced at the chuckle escaping from her lips.
“No more cake tonight, sweetheart.” She tossed Brixton a half-smile. “Now you go clean your teeth and hop to bed. And be quiet. Katie's already asleep.”
Now, Ned peered hopefully at Brixton. “A lullaby?”
“Not tonight.” He grinned. “You heard Minda. Your sisters are asleep. Now hop to.”
The boy stopped for a brief hug, then headed to the alcove in the corner, hidden by a calico curtain, where Katie already slept. A protective sensation surged through Brixton at that hug. Back teeth grinding, his humor fled as he recalled the threat coming from Norman Dale's neighbor, Tom Holden. Tom had made no bones yesterday about wanting to take Neddie-boy on as a field hand. The five-year old would nest in the barn at night with the hogs after blistering his fingers all day. Brixton could hardly stop up his wrath. At least Jake and Gracey had thought to make Silly their daughter.
Of course, Brixton had already tossed out an angry
no
, but how could he keep the kids from such vultures if Minda left?
He figured her caressing Ned was a sort of victory. Minda had to be feeling something deep down for the kids to touch them like that. She'd hold off Tom Holden.
“Actually, Priscilla is having a hard time going to sleep.” Minda said, not looking at Brixton. She moved toward the little trundle where Silly slept. The baby appeared to doze now, but her covers were tangled with restlessness.
“Well, it's been a busy day,” Brixton said.
“It's more than that. And she hasn't eaten much.” Minda tossed him a look and got up to wash Ned's dishes. Even performing such an everyday task, she moved like she had magic and music in her bones. For a moment, Brixton imagined the sweet warmth of her lips on his once again. That short kiss at the altar hadn't been near enough.
But the moment passed quickly when he considered it likely she'd slap him away like a Texas tick. After all, she'd talked of annulment, and the shameful notion bothered him. Folks around here knew the truth, though. She was bound to find sympathy for getting tricked, an annulment forgiven and her reputation saved.
How could he hold on to Minda once she'd done her payback? He'd have to. Nothing could break up the kids. He'd given Norman Dale his solemn oath.
“Well, I ought to turn in myself,” he said, saving these considerations for a time his brain wasn't so tired. “But thought to fill my flask from Norman Dale's stash.”
“Indeed. I've moved things around. The children don't need to see that. The bottle's here now.” She came with him to the kitchen shelves. That rose scent traveled with her, pleasuring his nose. And a sense of satisfaction pleased him, too. If she was rearranging things, she must already consider this her home. “And I do thank you for retrieving my valises,” she said, soft as snow.
“You're very welcome, Miz Haynes.”
“The whiskey's top shelf now, behind that basket of onions. Out of sight.”
He reached at the same time she pointed, and their hands met by accident. How her fingers could be so soft and supple after an evening of everyday chores baffled him.
She stood still, bright eyes watching him, like she might be waiting for something. Well, here he was, a man with a beautiful bride, and no wedding night in sight. Might as well take a chance.
“Don't think it's out of line to give my wife a good-night kiss,” he murmured, leaning down, hand on her shoulder, eyes closing as her warmth enfolded his entire self.
“That's just the whiskey talking, Mr. Haynes.”
He halted and frowned, speaking the truth. “I never imbibe more than I should, Miz Haynes. And never in front of the kids. This is an honest kiss. And I don't think you'd mind.”
She looked down at the rag rug. “I don't deny I wanted more after our bridal kiss. But that was before, Mr. Haynes.” Without meeting his gaze, she reached up and handed him a cold bottle, then stepped far out of reach. “You're leaving me. What kind of husband does that?”
Her eyes filled with tears and her voice shook. With no other answer than a polite nod, he headed without a word toward the backdoor, something he couldn't define weighing heavy on his shoulders. “Good night, Minda.”
“Good night yourself,” she said, without glancing at him. In the lone upholstered chair, she sat down with a sheaf of papers.
Norman Dale's letters, to be sure. Even though the dead deserved respect, Brixton shook his head at his brother's lies and the trap they had set. Sighing, he left out the backdoor, took off his shirt, and washed up at the well, letting the ice-cold spring water cool his heat. Then he bunked down against the barn. The stones underneath his bedroll comforted his spine like goose feathers did anybody else. As he licked a drop from the grooved mouth of his flask, he wished he could drink from Minda's lips one more time.
As stars blinked overhead, she doused the lantern in the house to sleep all alone in a big bed on her wedding night. By all rights, Brixton should be climbing in beside her.
Even alone, lying on a dusty farmyard, he grew hard as hell, imagining a time he might have the right to explore those womanly curves. Like an answer to prayer, sometime during the night the scent of roses crept up his nose. A woman's warmth filled the darkness, and lantern-light fell like rain.