A Bride in the Bargain (31 page)

By the time she returned with the eggs, her calm had been restored and her stomach had settled. Joe was nowhere in sight. His bed by the fire was made. His shaving utensils were cleaned and put away. His book was gone.

Was he in the necessary? Had he gone to his room to lie down? She tiptoed upstairs. His door stood open. His bed, untouched.

Returning to the kitchen, she kept an ear cocked for any noise from outside. What if he’d fainted again? She slipped out the door and slowly approached the privy.

“Joe?”

Nothing.

She knocked. “Joe? Are you in there?”

Shielding her eyes so that she’d only see his boots if he were inside, she opened the door. It was empty.

Where was he? Should she go to the logging site? If she did, supper would be late.

In the end, she did nothing. She was Joe’s cook. Not his nanny. Not his nurse. And certainly not his family.

When the men finally approached the yard, she stood on the porch waiting, coffeepots in hand. Joe was with them. She let out a sigh of relief.

Yet the carousing and revelry that normally accompanied their arrival were blatantly absent. Had he told them she’d refused his offer? Even though the men didn’t know the full truth of the situation, the thought still gave her pause. Her rejection of Joe’s offer and the resulting loss of his land would greatly impact his crew. Would he have to let them go? And if he did, what would they do? What would Joe do?

A thread of guilt infiltrated her resolve. She’d grown terribly fond of these men, and she actually loved Joe. His actions might have been subterfuge, but hers were the genuine article. That part hadn’t changed.

And standing on the porch watching their approach, Anna realized she had no real ambitions. No planned future. She’d simply come out west to escape and hadn’t thought beyond that.

But Joe had come out west with huge aspirations. Huge plans. And all would be ruined now through no real fault of his own.

She swallowed. He should have been honest with her. But she could certainly see why he hesitated. Especially when considering her resounding refusal of him when she’d first arrived.

She glanced at him. He looked horrible. His skin was a pasty color. His dimples were completely absent. And his eyes held such bleakness, she had to look away.

The men mumbled a greeting, then gathered round the table. Joe said nothing. Did his artifice mean he was untrustworthy in every area?

Not necessarily.

And what if he wasn’t? What if he was simply acting in desperation in order to save his land?

She shook her head. It was one thing to be desperate. It was something else entirely to entice her into marriage on false pretenses.

Joe said the blessing. She began to pour the coffee. The men thanked her, but no one teased or joked. Not with her. Not with each other.

They concluded their meal in swift order and started on their chores. She frowned when Joe picked up his ax. Surely he wasn’t going to chop wood. She looked at Red, but he wasn’t paying any attention to Joe. He was staring at her, his expression accusatory.

Spinning around, he headed to the barn, making no effort to interfere with Joe’s chopping.

She cleared the table as quickly as she could, then finished the cleanup inside. At long last, the men left. She hung her rag on the oven-door handle, removed her apron, then hesitated. She was unsure if she should retreat to her room, stay and sort shells, or make sure Joe didn’t need any opium.

Before she could decide, he entered and went straight to the stairs. She heard him climb the steps, then cross the hall. His drawers opened and closed. Moments later, he reappeared with arms full. He walked out without so much as acknowledging her.

He was moving to the barn.

She stood for a long while before finally placing her tin of shells on the table. She knew the decision she’d made was the right one. The best one. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Smoothing her skirt beneath her, she began to sort her shells. One thin spiraled shell in pink and brown, one white clam shell, one sand dollar. She ran her thumb over the exquisitely formed star in the middle of the chalky treasure she’d found on the South American coast.

Pressing a little too hard, she accidentally broke it. She stared, bereft, at the broken pieces. How quickly something so beautiful, so perfect, could be shattered.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

The next morning, Anna heard Joe enter through the door. Should she turn from the stove to greet him or wait until he greeted her? Should she ask if he needed a packed lunch, or would he be staying here? Should she offer him a cup of coffee or let him get his own?

She waited for him to make the first move, but he simply collected his shaving instruments and left again. No greeting. No coffee. No nothing.

She moved the oats to the back of the stove and began to assemble the men’s lunches. The longer Joe stayed away, the tenser she became until she thought she’d break apart as surely as the sand dollar had.

Breakfast was cooked and the men had arrived before he finally came back. Still, he said nothing and the men took their cue from him. During the entire meal, she found herself hiding in the kitchen, coming out only for refills and subsequent courses.

When breakfast was finally over, the men filed past the porch, picking up their lunch buckets. Red said nothing. Pelican, with a wad of snuff already tucked into his lip, nodded. Fish mumbled a thank-you without making eye contact. Wardle, Milton, Gibbs, Thirsty, and the rest took their turn, and with each one, the confusion and hurt she felt at their reticence built until she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to stay on the porch and still keep her emotions in check.

One more and she’d be done.

Ronny extended his hand. She handed him his bucket.

“Thank you, Miss Ivey,” he said, looking like a puppy who’d been kicked but was willing to come back on the off chance that this time, his master would offer love instead of cruelty. “The chestnut dressing sure was good.”

She bit her cheeks, not trusting herself to speak. He searched her face for a long moment. Walking up, Joe nudged him. The look of hostility Ronny shot back at him caused her to suck in her breath. But the boy obeyed and hurried to catch up with the others.

Joe glanced at the empty porch. His color wasn’t perfect, but it was better than yesterday. She wondered if he’d liked the dressing, too, and if he knew she’d made it especially for him.

“Where’s my bucket?” he asked.

She sighed. “I wasn’t sure if you were going or not.”

“I’m going.”

How’s your bump? Did you sleep all right? Are you still suffering from headaches? What about the dizzy spells?

“The doctor said you were to stay in bed for a week.”

“I’ll manage.”

“But I told him I’d make sure you did as he instructed.”

“I said, I’ll manage.”

“I see. Well. Your lunch is made, of course, but I’ll need to transfer it from the plate to a bucket. It’ll only take me a minute.”

He didn’t follow her inside. Her hands shook as she wrapped his sandwiches and the rest of his lunch, then packed it into his bucket.

When she returned to the porch, he stood in the middle of the yard, head bowed, hands in his pockets.

“Joe?”

He looked up. “I’ve figured out how much longer it will take for you to work off your debt.”

Her heart began to clamor.

He moved to the bottom step. “It will take until Saturday. Then you’ll be released from any obligation.”

The tears dammed at her throat broke loose and rushed to her eyes. With tremendous effort, she managed to keep them from falling. “Five and a half weeks of work doesn’t even begin to cover a debt of fifty dollars.”

He took the steps and stopped on the last, placing them at eye level. “I know, little robin. But seeing you day in and day out and never touching you would be . . .” He looked at her lips, then averted his gaze to the wooden slats running along the floor of the porch. “I just think it’d be best if you went ahead and left.”

She crinkled her apron with her free hand. “And the fifty dollars?”

He looked up. “You were brought here under false pretenses. You owe me nothing.”

That wasn’t true and they both knew it. Mercer was the one who’d brought her here under false pretenses.

He reached out, snagging the bucket from her hand and grazing her fingers at the same time. “I’m sorry, Anna. I should have told you the truth sooner. Much sooner.” He swallowed. “Because it’s not what it looks like. I really do care for you. I do.”

Turning, he left the yard. He walked by the chestnut still laying prostrate on the ground, but didn’t give it a glance. After another curve in the path, he was out of sight and earshot.

She didn’t dare believe him. He’d received that telegram only days after she’d arrived. Hardly long enough to develop feelings of any kind, much less deep, lasting ones.

Sinking onto the steps, she covered her face with her apron and sobbed.

“We’ll be leaving after breakfast on Saturday,” Joe said.

The boys had removed the bed from the kitchen and returned it to its proper place upstairs, then retreated for the evening. She’d hoped Joe would stay and keep her company, but he stood at the backdoor poised to retire.

“You don’t have to run off to the barn, Joe.”

“Yes I do.” His voice was low. Intimate.

She swallowed. “It’s your house. Your kitchen. If I make you uncomfortable, then I need to be the one to sleep in the barn, not you.”

“You have no idea how you make me feel, Anna. And believe me, I’d rather not be up there imagining you in that cot I’ve been keeping warm these last many weeks.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks.

He opened the door.

“Are you going to see the doctor while you’re in town?” she asked.

“I’m going to find a cook.” He closed the door.

A click of the latch. A creak on the porch steps. A padding of footsteps on the path. The farther he went, the heavier the weight in her chest.

He was going to look for a cook. But the person he found wouldn’t know that Milton liked his meat burnt, while Thirsty liked his still mooing. That Ronny didn’t care for vegetables but had an insatiable sweet tooth. That Fish would eat pork seven days a week and that Joe would eat anything at all—except mushrooms.

But a cook was the least of Joe’s worries. In a little over a week, he’d lose his land and most likely his men. She’d be kidding herself to pretend she didn’t care. To pretend she didn’t know that if she married him on Saturday, he’d have it free and clear. And the crew she’d come to care for would have secured their jobs.

Should she marry him, then, for the sake of his land and for the sake of his loggers? Could she? How far, exactly, was she willing to go for Joseph Denton?

She didn’t know. She simply didn’t know.

Looking at the shelf holding the shells, Anna considered the time and effort she’d spent separating them. Yet she hadn’t even begun to make anything. All at once, finishing at least one keepsake before she left became of utmost importance.

Placing the assorted jars on the table, she decided she had time for a small frame. With paper and pen she sketched a rough design. Tomorrow, she’d try to find a wood plank to use as a base, and she’d cook up some hide glue. And at some point, she needed to think about where she’d go from here.

The gray Saturday morning matched everyone’s mood. Joe headed to the barn to hitch up the wagon, the rain rapping against his hat and jacket. His loggers filed by her, taking the last lunch bucket she’d ever prepare for them. Their feet dragged. Their expressions were somber.

“You be careful in town, Miss Ivey.”

“If you need anything, you know who to call.”

“I’ll sure miss your vinegar pies.” Milton jumped when Thirsty elbowed him. “Oh. And you too, Miss Ivey. I’ll miss you, too.”

One by one they left until only Ronny stood before her. Water slid off the roof, screening in the lean-to.