The Outlaw Bride (15 page)

“I don’t think anybody’s been here,” he said, “but there ought to be cans in the storeroom. Maybe some beans and flour. Ben did most of the cooking.” He brushed by her and opened a door off the kitchen. “Out here.”

She followed him, her senses taking off at a wild gallop in the aftermath of his touch. “Is there coffee?”

“Over the stove. You get what you want out here while I start a fire. I’ll go get fresh water from the pump at the back door.”

Josie fidgeted. “I’ll get the water,” she insisted as she picked up the flour. “You’ve done enough walking.”

“I told you, I’ll go,” he said. “The horses have to be put in the barn.” He started toward the front door.

Josie stopped where she was and faced him with a look of chagrin. “Wait, Callahan, there’s something you ought to know.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “What?”

“I don’t know how to cook.”

When the reverend and his followers turned away, Jacob—he still found it hard to think of himself by that name—relaxed the protesting muscles in his body and sagged back against the keg where he’d been sitting.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Rachel said softly.

“Do what?”

“Marry me.”

“I couldn’t leave you alone, not after what you’ve done for me.”

“Long before my husband died, I was alone.” A sad look crossed her face. “Howell drank too much. He found a way to hide from his trouble.”

“I don’t mean to pry, Rachel, and if you’d rather not tell me, I’ll understand, but what kind of trouble?”

“Howell had only one leg. In his eyes, that made him only half a man.”

“A lot of fighting men came back from the war with missing limbs. I can imagine how hard that must have been.”

“Yes,” she said, without offering further explanation.

He smiled at her. “And you looked after him without complaint, didn’t you?”

“It was my duty.”

“You take duty very seriously, don’t you, Rachel?” Jacob asked, looking off into the distance.

He wanted to know more about this woman. “Are you Catholic? Brother Joshua didn’t seem to be a priest.”

“No. He’s starting his own church. And I don’t suppose you’d call me anything. My father gave up on God a long time before I was born, but don’t tell the reverend that. He’d probably turn around and go back to that salty lake we passed to baptize me. I may go to hell, but I’d rather not be pickled when I get there.”

Jacob grinned. It seemed his
wife
had a sense of humor.

Just for a moment, when she smiled, he saw a different woman from the strong, silent little wren he’d thought her to be. Of course, his vision had been clouded before, but he’d thought her older. Her ample breasts couldn’t be disguised by the plain, threadbare brown dress she was wearing. The worn spots looked almost honey-colored, matching the golden tints in her primly braided hair. He wondered how it would look loose on a pillow. A twitch in his loins reminded him that, in spite of his loss of memory, he was a man. And this woman was his wife. Wife? Had he ever had one before? This time, no flashes of memory came to him.

There was an awkward silence while he attempted
to remember the thread of their conversation. Parents. “And your mother?” he asked, moving reluctantly back to the present.

“I don’t know. She left soon after I was born.”

“I’m sorry, Rachel.” The mention of her parents brought back images of his own. “I have a shadowy impression that my mother was quiet—or afraid. Maybe of my father. He was killed during the war, I believe. I don’t think his death was a great loss.”

Rachel wanted to be glad that he remembered, but she wasn’t. She was afraid that he might remember too much, remember a life that would take him away from her.

“My Pa was a violent man,” Jacob added. “He treated … people badly. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

The distant pounding in his head intensified, and he pressed his fingertips to the sore spot on his forehead, trying desperately to pull back something from the darkness. Nothing came.

“You just lean your head back against that wagon and rest,” she said, “while I get our supper done. Whatever you need to know will come to you in time.”

But when? Jacob cursed whatever fate had taken his past and left a shell of a man behind. This Howell that Rachel had been married to might have had only one leg, but at least he knew who he was. Jacob looked down at his clothing—typical ranchhand wear, but surprisingly clean. “My clothes?” he said, using the tone of his voice to turn it into a question. “You washed them, how’d you … I mean, did I …?” He felt his face flush.

“Take ’em off? Nope. I did it. And I kept you cleaned up too. And yes, you were naked at the time. No way around that. You don’t wear underwear. Makes sense to me. Why’d a man want to burn up if he doesn’t have to?”

She’d taken off his clothes, washed them, and bathed his body? Jacob was speechless. He closed his eyes, drawing in the smells of the campfire, listening to the sound of the oxen and the laughter of children running through the camp in a game of chase.

Rachel began to sing. Conscious now of the woman behind the shadowy figure who’d hovered at the edge of his awareness for days, he listened to the words of her song. She sang a plaintive song of an Irish boy who went off to war, of the fair Colleen who’d loved him, and how she went to a rock on top of a hill outside their village to wait for his return. But he never came home, and she grew old alone. The boy’s name was Fin, and as Rachel sang, that song permeated Jacob’s awareness like the smell of a smokehouse in winter, tantalizing and somehow reassuring.

A stronger scent filled the air—coffee—and he realized that he was hungry. “Let me help you,” he said, forcing himself to sit up again.

“No need. I’m making biscuits,” she replied. “They’ll be done in a minute.”

“I can do that.”

She looked over her shoulder, surprised. “You cook biscuits?”

“Did it every day.” Her fingers were forcing the flour and lard together. He came closer. “Where’s the milk?”

“In the cow,” she answered.

He smiled, his face lighting up like a small boy who’d discovered a bee’s nest filled with honey. He glanced around. “A cow? Where?”

“Rosie’s tied out with the oxen, grazing. It might be harder than you think, Jacob.…” Her voice trailed off.

But Jacob, undeterred, picked up a bucket and headed for the animals.

Though his gait was unsteady, he felt a certain pride in moving, in being able to do something. Milking a cow was a simple thing—not manly, probably not even particularly helpful, but for the first time in days he was doing something.

Jacob pulled the cow around so he could sit on a stump and placed the bucket on a level spot. He realized he didn’t have a clue about what he was supposed to do. The cow fidgeted, swishing her tail impatiently. Obviously, he’d done this before, otherwise he wouldn’t have known to bring the bucket or where to put it. Gingerly, he clasped the teats in his hands and tugged.

Rosie snorted, lifted one leg, and brought her hoof down hard on Jacob’s foot.

“All right, girl. So I’m doing it wrong. You could be a little more helpful to a man who’s had a lick on the head.”

She swung her head around and gave him a careless glance, as if to say it was up to him and he’d better be quick about it.

“Need some help, mister?”

An orange-haired boy with a dirty face peeped around one of the oxen. “I mean, if you’ll let me have a cup of her milk, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“That’s a deal,” Jacob said to the boy and stood up. “Show me.”

“Well, it’s like this. You pretend there’s a bucket full of ants down there and you got to drown them suckers. Then you just catch hold at the top of the tit and squeeze, like you’re trying to empty it.”

Jacob watched a stream of yellow-white liquid hit the bottom of the bucket and spatter the side, like the frothy surf kicked up by a storm. As he watched, he knew that he’d never milked a cow before. But he did have the uncanny sensation that he’d at some point lived near an
ocean. It occurred to him that he didn’t even remember where Wyoming was. But he was certain they were a long way from the coast. After a few minutes the boy leaned back. “You want to try it?”

As Jacob Christopher, he would have to learn a whole new way of thinking. He nodded and sat on the stump, clasping Rosie’s warm teats and closing his eyes so that he didn’t show his revulsion.

“Remember the ants,” the boy directed. “One at a time, aim, squeeze, and let ’em have it.”

The directions were good. Jacob followed them to the letter, and a short time later they had half a bucket of warm milk.

When Rachel caught sight of him returning, her eyes lit up unexpectedly and a smile curved her lips. The setting sun put a glow on her face, illuminating her warm brown eyes. Jacob held her gaze for a moment, then watched the smile disappear.

“I wasn’t certain you’d be able to do it,” she said in a voice that didn’t match the tenderness he’d seen in her eyes only moments before.

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “I had help.”

She glanced behind him. “Tell me you’re not carrying a fairy in your pocket.”

“No fairies. Sorry, only a little red-haired boy.”

“No matter,” she said, retying the string on her apron. “Never did believe in fairies anyhow.”

Jacob couldn’t help but notice that the buttons down the front of Rachel’s shirtwaist gapped open. He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He took a step closer.

“What … what are you thinking, Jacob Christopher?”

He saw the sudden flash of fear in her eyes that came with realization. “Right now I don’t think you want to
know.” He handed her the bucket and closed his eyes to block out temptation.

“Don’t you go passing out on me,” she snapped, suddenly beside him, her arm around his waist, those full breasts pressed against his chest. The ever-present throbbing in his head intensified.

He started to fade into blackness, all the while knowing that he’d never be able to control himself around this woman if he remained conscious.

11
 

Josie looked down at the sodden mass of cornmeal and winced. “I should have stayed home and learned to cook,” Josie sighed. But that wasn’t what Dr. Annie had in mind for her daughter. Josie was to go to school, and it was there that learning became her passion.

Then Lubina was hired, and it was understood that no one was to trepass in her kitchen, which suited Josie fine. And when Josie went to New York to read law, there were housekeepers and cooks in both of her grandfathers’ homes.

Josie had spent most of her life scavenging for books, and through her reading she’d discovered a world she’d never even dreamed of. But it was a world that didn’t include cooking.

So be it. She found a skillet inside the oven, still greasy from its last use. With a small prayer for help from Lubina’s patron saint of the kitchen, she poured the mixture into the
skillet and plopped it on top of the stove where she could keep an eye on it.

Callahan snored in the room off the parlor-kitchen, exhausted from their ride and, Josie suspected, from the disappointment of not finding Ben. After they stabled the horses, she’d insisted he rest before they started back to Sharpsburg.

He hadn’t argued. “All you have to do is start the fire,” he said. “I’ll just rest a few minutes, and then I’ll help you make something to eat.”

But as he slept, she became restless, pacing the small cabin, her thoughts focused on him. Not on his health, or even on what they’d done by breaking him out of jail, but on the man. Her heart hurt for the pain he felt because he thought he had let Ben down. Facing the possibility of losing your family must be devastating. She had better get used to that idea, she thought. After what she’d done, that could very well happen.

Josie continued to pace, torn between concern for her family’s reaction to what she’d done and her feelings for this man for whom she’d risked everything. It wasn’t just that Sims Callahan was an incredibly handsome man, it was the strong sense of connection she felt to him. The feeling of danger was gone. Whatever he’d done, it was to protect the people he cared about. He was simply trying to find a place where he could belong—just like her.

Josie didn’t fool herself about how vulnerable she was right now. They were alone out here, and though he was still not back to his full strength, he could overpower her with nothing more than a kiss. Her heart moved like a wild mustang in a small corral.

She had to find something to do, else she’d wake Callahan, and that could be a mistake. How hard could making coffee be? She found a real coffeepot, filled it
with water, and placed it on the hot stove. Next, she opened the can of coffee and measured out a loose handful, hoping it was enough to make a reasonable cup of coffee without having it walk out the door. Opening the top buttons of her shirtwaist, she fanned herself. How did women do this three times a day? The stove heated the July air, but it wasn’t just the air that caused her forehead to bead with perspiration. It was the man sleeping in the other room.

Josie picked up her law books and tried to research cases that might be similar to Callahan’s, cases where juries had reversed sentences, cases about breaking and entering and larceny, but if there was a case involving a man who was robbed while transporting money, she couldn’t find it. Josie the attorney was out of her element; she’d become Josie the woman, and there were no books in her carryall to give her directions about that.