Silver Lining (17 page)

"Somewhere. But I don't… here, use this." Coming to the mudroom door, Louise glanced at the water dripping into the opened collar of his shirt, then pushed a dish towel into his hands.

The first thing he noticed after hanging his hat on a peg and stepping into the kitchen was the stove. Iron with nickel trim and wood handles that stayed cool to the touch no matter how hot the firebox became. It burned wood or coal, soft or hard.

"Ain't it the grandest, shiniest stove you ever saw?" Louise said, following his gaze. "And look here. We have an icebox to keep things cool." Opening the icebox lid she removed a dish of butter. "There's no ice in it now, but come winter there will be." A stream of words poured out of her. "Your mother and sister prepared supper." She set the dish of butter on the table and stepped back, frowning. "Do I have to set out spoons even if we won't be using them? Oh, wait. I forgot about stirring sugar into coffee. Well, hell.

I forgot to make fresh coffee."

"It doesn't matter." Remembering that he hadn't eaten since yesterday, he took a seat at the head of the kitchen table. "Louise," he said after watching her bounce from stove to pump handle to icebox as if she couldn't stop moving. "Will you sit down?"

"I dished out the stew, but I thought you'd want to see the rest of the house before you ate. I wasn't sure what to do."

"I'll see the house later." He swallowed a bite of stew, then reached for a fresh loaf of bread. "I'm sorry I disappeared last night and most of today. I knew Ma and Gilly would look after you."

"I don't need looking after," she said, bristling. "A lot happened last night and this morning. Your ma told me most of it." She pulled small pieces off a chunk of bread, rolled them into balls between her thumb and middle finger, and dropped the little balls into her stew bowl. "I guess you went crazy when you learned Philadelphia was pregnant."

Suddenly the food tasted like ashes. "There's nothing to be gained by talking about it." As the shadows deepened outside the windows, the lamp in the center of the table seemed brighter, spreading a soft glow over the tablecloth, smoothing the circles beneath Louise's lashes. He drew a breath. "I'll be gone about a week on the roundup."

Surprise lifted her brows. "I thought I heard Livvy mention the roundup would last longer than that."

"We won't bring in the cattle in one large herd, but in several smaller herds. I'll return with the first group and set up for branding and notching."

"At the main house."

He nodded. "Will you be all right staying here alone for a week? I could leave one of the boys to look after you."

Even the loose tendrils around her face seemed to stiffen with offense. "I don't need a nursemaid, damn it." Tilting her head, she glared at him. "A better idea would be to take me along on the roundup. I could learn how to chase down cows."

"You probably could." He smiled in spite of himself. "But I doubt the boys would appreciate having a greenhorn woman getting in the way."

"I'm no delicate little flower, McCord," she said, narrowing her eyes even farther. "I can do anything a man can do."

He thought again that he liked her best when her dander was up, and pride and bravado rose like mercury shooting up a thermometer "I won't argue the point," he agreed, reaching for more bread. "Ma and Gilly used to ride along before Gilly turned into a young lady. But Ma was never a greenhorn, she could bust mavericks out of the brush as good as any man. And I've seen Gilly hold a small herd together."

"Well, then." Triumph gleamed in her eyes. "I guess I can, too."

"Cow punching is something a person grows up with or grows into. It isn't something you learn in the middle of the fall roundup. You'd be a danger to yourself and others."

Maybe it was the play of lamplight across her features that made her expression so readable tonight. He saw her disappointment but also knew he'd struck the right chord when he explained that she might imperil others.

"You could go up to the main house and stay with Ma," he suggested after he'd finished the stew and she'd served him a slab of rhubarb pie. He wouldn't have left Philadelphia absolutely alone, and he was determined to offer Louise the same courtesies.

"I might visit, but I'll stay here." She continued to roll little bread balls, now dropping them on top of the pie she hadn't touched. "Somebody needs to feed the chickens and milk the cow. I guess that's me. Who knows? Maybe I'll ride out and find some cattle close in and practice driving them toward the barn."

This was what he didn't like. Her independence led to impulsive decisions. Patiently, he explained the foolishness of attempting to chase cattle out of the brush with no instruction and no one along to help if things went wrong.

"Suppose the steer charges your horse and your horse shies and throws you. You could be out there for a week with a broken leg and no water, and no one knowing where you are."

Raising her head, she gave him a long searching look. "I wouldn't think that would concern you overmuch," she said in an expressionless voice. "Nobody would shed a tear if I got thrown and broke my neck."

"No one would be happy about it, either," he snapped, returning her steady gaze. "What you do now doesn't alter a damned thing. Live or die. Stay or go. Wally will still be married to Philadelphia ."

Realizing he'd raised his voice, he leaned back in his chair and pulled a hand down his jaw, feeling the small pox pits beneath his fingertips. "Do you still want a baby?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes."

"Then stop feeling sorry for yourself, if that's what you're doing. I agree it wasn't much of a welcome, with Ma talking divorce before you even went inside the house, but the family's trying to do right, trying not to blame you for everything that's happened." He ignored the hissing sound of her breath and the way her spine went rigid. "But the truth is, a lot of lives have been changed or affected because you want a baby."

"Or because you wanted a summer in the mountains. Or because fate put a marble in your hand. Or—"

He raised his hand. "You're right. But the fact is Wally wouldn't have married Philadelphia today if you had wanted a piano or a house or something else. You and I are married because you wanted a baby.

And so are Wally and Philadelphia ."

"What are you trying to say?" she asked coldly.

"I guess I'm saying that I don't blame you, but you do bear some responsibility. I'm also saying that you can run off if you want to. You can risk your life on foolish, dangerous pursuits if you need to prove a point." He stared into her eyes. "Then nobody wins. Nobody in this whole mess gets what they want.

Believe it or not, and I've told you this before, I don't want to see that happen. I'd like to think that at least one person finds something good in all of this. But I'm through begging you to stay, Louise. If you truly want to cut and run, then go. Nothing's holding you here, you're not a prisoner."

"I'm staying," she said, pushing up from the table. "I ain't changed my mind about a baby." Spinning in a swirl of skirts, she stormed toward the pump and worked the handle so vigorously that water gushed into the dishpan like a geyser. "I never said I expected a big welcome, and I never even hinted that your family hasn't treated me right! They've been polite, thoughtful, and nice as pie." She threw him a burning look. "They're treating me squarely, not for my sake, but for yours, and that's all right. But it's true that I could die right now standing here about to wash up the supper dishes, and no one would weep a single tear. That's how it's always been, and that's a fact!"

Abruptly Max realized that he had no idea what they were arguing about. Not an inkling. Standing, he decided now was a good time to inspect the rest of the house. For a moment he watched Louise furiously scraping the bowls and pie plates into the slop bucket, then decided he didn't have to explain why he was leaving the table. But he felt the need to say something.

"I've said all I'm going to on this subject, and don't you forget it." Hell, he didn't even know what the subject was.

"Oh, you can count on that!" she shouted as he left the kitchen and entered the hallway leading to the foyer.

He lit the lamps in the dining room and parlor and discovered that his instructions had been followed to the letter. The wallpaper reflected Philadelphia 's favorite shade of crimson and the parlor sofa was upholstered in an offsetting dark blue. The colors were repeated in a flowered carpet and again in the fringe on the lampshades. Everything had turned out exactly as he had imagined when he'd designed these rooms. Except…

Frowning, he walked to the mantelpiece over the parlor fireplace. He'd pictured the heirloom candlesticks bequeathed to Philadelphia by her mother framing both ends of the mantelpiece, perhaps flanking an artful arrangement of figurines and velvet and silk flowers.

Instead, a solitary silver spoon stood against the wallpaper in the center of the mantel, propped against a scratched pewter watch case.

His impulse was to tuck the items into a drawer rather than give such shabby pieces a place of prominence. Displaying them was ludicrous. Embarrassing. Then he remembered Louise showing him the spoon at the campsite, something he'd forgotten. He covered his eyes and sighed.

For a while at least, this was her home, too. She had as much right to display her treasures as he had to display his collection of first editions in the glass-fronted bookcase. And that's what she had done.

Now he spotted a short stack of what turned out to be songbooks piled on top of the bookcase.

Curious, he opened the bench seat in front of the piano and found more songbooks there. She'd placed a few with the piano and a few with his books as if unable to decide whether the songbooks were music or reading material.

Swearing, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and found the green marble. Damn it. That's what he hated. About the time he was angry and feeling self-righteous and put upon, she said or did something that knocked the wind out of him.

After staring at the silver spoon for a full minute, he reluctantly returned to the kitchen and leaned in the doorway, watching her stack bowls on the drain board. A dish towel was draped over her shoulder. "I'm not going to dry the dishes."

"I didn't ask you to."

"But I'll empty the dishwater in the yard."

"No, thank you. I'll do it myself," she said in a tight, clipped voice.

"I don't mind emptying the pan," he said, striving for patience.

"Well, I don't want you to do one damned thing for me!"

Max didn't understand why an angry woman refused to allow a man to do something helpful. Just as his mother had done when his father was alive, Louise bustled around the kitchen, wiping this, drying that, creating enough noise and commotion to make him feel that he was an idle lump of wood standing in her way.

"All right, what are you sore about?"

"Why would I feel sorry for myself?" She waved the dish towel and looked around with flashing eyes. "I never even knew a stove like that existed, and now I'll be cooking on it! And this house is the most beautiful place I ever saw. It will be a privilege to care for it and all the wonderful things in it. So don't you go accusing me—me!—of feeling sorry for myself, because I ain't! If it wasn't for you, I'd be as happy as a horse in high clover! You ask me, it's you who're feeling sorry for yourself!"

He saw it now. He'd insulted her or stung her feelings or maybe both when he said she was feeling sorry for herself. That's what the slamming and banging was all about.

"You think I'm feeling sorry for myself?" He didn't like hearing it either.

She leaned against the sink and crossed her arms over her chest. "There are going to be a lot of unhappy days for you, Max. When Wally and Philadelphia return to the ranch and the main house. The first time you see her as your brother's wife. The first Sunday dinner with everyone present. As you see her belly get bigger. The day she delivers."

"What's your point?"

"Making me feel bad isn't going to make you feel better."

Anger tightened his chest, and he pushed away from the doorjamb. Wives didn't speak to husbands that bluntly or critically. She had just given him one more reason to resent having married her.

"If you'll excuse me," he said coldly, "I'm going up to bed."

"You're excused!" She rolled her eyes and drew out the words. Then she picked up the dishpan and carried the dirty water toward the mudroom door. "I'll be up when I finish here."

He'd forgotten that only one bedroom had been finished. As Philadelphia had hinted that she would like rooms to furnish and decorate, he'd purposely left two of the three bedrooms empty. Like it or not, he and Louise would have to share a bed.

After lighting the lamps, he gazed unhappily at what was definitely a woman's bedroom. Rose paisley wallpaper. Ruffles and lace, lots of lace. A skirted vanity. Fringed tiebacks on the draperies. The decor had amused him when he'd planned it to surprise and indulge Philadelphia . Now it stifled and smothered.

Pressing his lips together, he glanced inside the dressing room, noting a row of his clothing on one side, and Louise's bought and borrowed items hanging on the other side.

By the time his unwanted wife came upstairs, he was in bed reading, and wearing a nightshirt, which was not his habit. Pretending to be engrossed in his book, he watched her enter the dressing room, then emerge a few minutes later completely covered by the voluminous tent-like nightgown. She'd taken down her hair and plaited it into a long braid that swung over her shoulder as she pulled back the blanket and sheet on her side then tucked herself and yards and yards of nightgown into bed.

Having arranged nightgown and covers, she pushed her pillow against the headboard and sat propped up as he was, her arms again crossed over her chest. A signal if he'd ever seen one.

"Is the light bothering you?" he inquired irritably. If she answered yes, as he expected she would, his choice would be to abandon the pleasure of reading before slumber or to ignore her wishes and be inconsiderate.