Silver Lining (4 page)

But who? Granted, Billy Brown should have, halted the proceedings and called another meeting to discuss the twist their gratitude had taken. But Max couldn't imagine any man stating that he'd rather Low Down had let him die than poke her. In the end, they would have agreed that someone had to give her a baby.

Jellison made him the maddest because he'd introduced marriage. But naturally a preacher would insist on marriage. It could be argued that Jellison would have been derelict in his duty if he hadn't raised the specter of sin and damnation.

Low Down? She had set a train in motion, impossible to halt once the wheels began to grind. But everyone present, including himself, had urged her to name whatever she wanted most. No one had mentioned any restrictions. No one had added, "as long as what you want is reasonable."

Standing abruptly, Max ground his teeth together and glared down at the skillet of burning biscuits. A terrible wild darkness filled his chest with an intolerable pressure that would burst through his skin if he didn't do something. Losing control, he kicked the skillet off the flames, kicked it down the incline and kept kicking until the pan sailed hissing into the creek.

Then he jammed shaking hands into his pockets and discovered he still had the green marble. Holding it to the sunlight, he swore and ran his thumb over the scratched X that had made a jilted bride out of Philadelphia and a bastard out of him.

In the end, this small glass marble was all he had to blame. The utter ridiculousness of it struck him hard and stopped him from flinging the marble into the rushing creek. He rolled it between his fingers and finally decided he would keep it.

Whenever he was arrogant enough to believe that he was the master of his fate, or anytime he became so puffed up as to think he might deserve a little happiness in life, he would look at the green marble as a reminder that he was wrong.

*

When he could finally bring himself to do it, he went in search of his new bride. The men he passed gave him a thumb's up sign or a nod of sympathy but none met his eye directly. He understood. In their shoes, he would have felt uncomfortable, too, that one man bore the burden for all. There was some satisfaction in knowing the men recognized the injustice that had been done him.

He might have walked past Low Down's claim, mistaking her for a man, if he hadn't recognized the clothing she'd worn yesterday. Halting at the top of the rise, he crossed his arms over his chest and silently took stock of the stranger who was now his wife.

First, she gave no indication that she knew he was present, indicating she was neither observant nor cautious. A kinder viewpoint might have been to grant her a high level of concentration and intent focus.

She stood at the edge of the creek, squatting over the water, swirling her pan just beneath the surface to wash away dirt and loose matter. When she raised the pan to pick out rocks and gravel, he saw that her hands were red from the icy water and rough-looking even from a distance.

Philadelphia 's small hands were white and soft, the nails beautifully shaped and buffed to a pink sheen.

Low Down's ugly hat shaded her neck and face from the sun and a cloud of mosquitoes, but one long coil of gray-brown hair swung down the back of her wool vest. With something of a shock, Max realized the grayish color was mud and dirt. Heaven only knew what color her hair might be when it was clean.

The night before he'd left for the mountains, he had stood on Philadelphia 's steps and watched the light from the porch lamp cast a golden halo around her curls. Her skin and hair had smelled like roses.

Blinking, he watched Low Down examine her pan and poke a finger at the sandy residue. With a sound of disgust, she tossed it out, then stood, stretched, and reached for a shovel to refill the pan with a new load of hope.

She was tall, something he hadn't really noticed yesterday, only three or four inches shorter than he, which made her about five foot eight. Not small and delicate like Philadelphia .

"How long you going to stand there gawking? I thought you were leaving today," Low Down said. She hadn't looked at him once and didn't now.

So she wasn't as unobservant as he'd supposed. He also noticed the Colt strapped to her waist and realized she wasn't incautious either. Dropping his arms to his sides, he walked down to the water's edge and inspected her sluice. She'd set it up efficiently, but he didn't notice much color glittering along the ridges. A little dust maybe, but no nuggets.

"We'll leave in the morning." He wanted his letter to reach Fort Houser before they arrived. "I figure we'll ride out at sunup."

She squatted over the water again and plunged her pan beneath the surface. "We? Come on, McCord.

You ain't taking this marriage seriously, are you?" She made a derisive sound at the back of her throat.

"Everybody knows the ceremony was a sham." She concentrated on swirling her pan as if the matter was closed and there was no more to say.

"The wedding was real, and you know it," he stated in a flat voice. "Like it or not, you and I are married."

She didn't look up immediately, but she stopped circling the pan and she lifted her hands out of the icy water, making sure he noticed that she wasn't wearing the ring Billy Brown had provided. "Go home to Miss Houser," she said in a low voice. "Just ride out of here. Neither of us wants to be married, so just go."

He leaned against a granite boulder facing the willows and cottonwoods crowding the opposite bank, and he wished to Christ that he could do what she suggested.

"And do what? Marry Miss Houser and make a bigamist out of myself?" And then spend the rest of his life living in fear of exposure and dreading what the truth would do to Philadelphia and their families and any children they might have if the marriage to Low Down ever came back to bite him.

She rocked back on her heels, dipping her butt in the cold water, and she glared up at him with hazel eyes that were an odd mixture of green and brown.

"We're married," he said again. Maybe if he said it enough times, he'd start to actually believe it. "We have to decide where we go from here."

"For starters, I'm not going anywhere with you." Standing up, she slapped at the water dripping off the butt of her trousers, then she picked up her shovel and leaned on the handle. "Don't get me wrong, McCord, I've got nothing against you. I just don't want the aggravation of a husband, not you or any other man. Plus, you already have a wife lined up and waiting. She doesn't have to ever know what happened yesterday." She waved one red-cold hand. "Or, if you think you need to, ride up to Wyoming and petition for a divorce."

Work had slowed all along the creek, and the men found reason to face in the direction of Low Down's claim. Those down wind made no pretense about straining to overhear the conversation. The noise of shovels and voices had ceased.

Max drew a breath. "It's not easy to obtain a divorce; very few are granted." He waited, then said the rest. "There's also a matter of duty." When she frowned, he realized he had to spell it out. "The men's gratitude. Their expectations."

"Oh. That." Her laugh was so false that he scowled. "Having a baby was a dumb idea." She smiled down at layers of men's clothing then tugged at the neck of the faded long johns bunched above her shirt collar.

"Can you imagine me as a mother? Now that I've had time to think about it, neither can I."

Considering that he didn't know her at all, it impressed him as odd that he knew she was lying. But he'd watched her as she struggled to decide whether to ask for the one thing she wanted most. She wanted a baby and had wanted one for a long time.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Unbelievably, not only had he been forced to marry this woman, but now he found himself in the ludicrous position of having to persuade her to honor their vows.

"Low Down…" He let the words trail, wondering if she had a real name. "I'll go to my grave resenting what happened yesterday. But I agreed that you deserved whatever you wanted as a token of our gratitude. And I put myself in the group of men who would draw a marble out of the hat." In retrospect, stepping forward had been the deciding act of his life. And the stupidest. "It's important to the men you saved that you have that baby. And they expect me, as a man of honor, to do what I agreed to do." He flat could not believe he was saying this. His voice hardened. "If you've changed your mind about a baby, or if it was a frivolous choice, then damn you." He stared at her. "Your foolishness wrecked several lives."

Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut, and she studied him intently. "Are you saying you intend to give me a baby?"

"That's my duty." Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he curled his fingers around the green marble and gripped it so hard that he felt the curve bruise the bones of his palm. "A McCord does not shirk his duty."

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch!" Rubbing her cheek, she considered him with a thoughtful expression.

Once the idea took hold, she flicked a hopeful glance toward her tent, and Max hastily raised a hand.

"Not right this minute," he said quickly in case that's what she was thinking. At the moment, he couldn't imagine ever desiring this scruffy woman. But even if she'd been beautiful and perfumed, a sloe-eyed temptress, he couldn't conceive of bedding her at noon-day with sixty-plus men watching and listening.

Frowning at the men lining the creek banks, he imagined a slump of disappointment rippled through the ranks, and wondered uneasily how much of this discussion they could overhear.

"Well, then when?"

"When the time is right," he hedged, having no idea when that might be. But it wasn't now.

She nodded slowly, thinking it over. "All right. I guess we're stuck anyway, so I might as well get a baby out of the deal. What I said earlier—" she waved a hand "—I was just jawing. I really do want that baby.

But I don't want a husband. Could we agree to this? Once I get pregnant, we're both off the hook. You go your way then, and I go mine. We're quits."

The baby was the crux of the matter for both of them, not the marriage which neither wanted. Already Max's mind had leapt ahead, feverish with hope that Philadelphia would understand the circumstances and wait for him to arrange a divorce.

No, she wouldn't.

Low Down lifted the shovel handle and poked the bucket at the ground. A pink flush traveled up her throat. "How long do you think it will take to get me pregnant?"

Philadelphia would have chosen a euphemism instead of saying pregnant straight out. But Philadelphia was a refined lady. Low Down was about as refined as her muddy, shapeless gum-rubber boots.

Uncomfortable with the question, Max rubbed his chin, fingering the pox marks along his jaw in a gesture that was becoming habitual. "I don't know."

"I mean, how many times does it take?" From the corner of his eye, he noticed her cheeks had caught fire and were now as scarlet as her hands. "How many times do we have to, you know, do it?" Throwing down the shovel, she planted her fists on her hips and swung away from him. "I'm trying to ask if we can get this done before you leave so I don't have to leave with you."

Oh Lord. Feeling inadequate for this conversation, he covered his eyes, then dragged his fingers down his face. It hadn't occurred to him that she'd be an innocent. As if she'd guessed his thoughts, she whirled around and narrowed her eyes into slits.

"I've been with a man, and I'm not as stupid as you're probably thinking. But it was a long time ago, and I didn't ask about babies or how many times it took to get one. And I've never known a woman well enough to ask such a thing."

He hadn't believed her face could get redder, but she suddenly looked as if she had a severe sunburn.

Feeling the heat in his own throat, he suspected he looked the same. Standing away from the boulder, he hooked his thumbs in his back pockets and focused hard on the water rushing past his feet.

He cleared his throat loudly. "Do you know how to tell if you're pregnant?"

"Well, of course," she snapped. "I do know that much."

"Getting pregnant has nothing to do with how many times two people, ah, do it." He cleared his throat again. "Sometimes it only takes once. Sometimes months and months can pass." He didn't want to consider that possibility.

Hopefully, she'd be more appealing after a bath and a hair wash, and when she was dressed in a clean, frilly nightshift. Sliding a sidelong glance toward the spot where she was pacing along the creek, he tried to peer past the baggy loose clothing she wore. Then he swore between his teeth. He couldn't believe he was even thinking about taking her to bed. "In fact," he muttered, hating it, "most of the time getting pregnant takes a while."

"Damn," she said unhappily. "So there's no choice, I have to leave with you. Well, hell." She kicked the side of her sluice. "I had plans."

The sour burn of bitterness squelched any reply he might have made.

"So. Where are we going? South, I hope?"

"West."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

" Fort Houser is about a four-hour trip by wagon out of Denver ." The town had never been a fort, actually. Joseph Houser, Philadelphia 's grandfather, had bestowed the name in hopes the army would take notice, build a stockade on the site, and protect his interests and holdings. The army had bypassed Fort Houser but so had marauding Indians. In the ensuing years, Joseph Houser's dream had blossomed into a growing, prosperous town.

"The winters get cold out there on the plains," Low Down commented sourly.

Now that he'd covered the basics, Max couldn't think of much more to say. He instructed her to be packed and ready to leave Piney Creek by six the next morning. She mentioned that she'd use the rest of the day trying to sell her claim, but she doubted anyone would buy it. He inquired if she needed assistance packing, and she stared at him as if he'd lost his senses.

"Well," he said after a minute. Pulling his watch out of his pocket, he consulted the time as if he had somewhere to go and something to do. "I guess I'll…"