The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (4 page)

"It did?" Hawke's gruff voice was booming. "And what time might that have been,
friend
? I wrote all of your courtship letters for you, but I don't recall scribbling down anything to suggest that I might be on the lookout for a bride!"

Blushing a little, Caleb admitted, "Well, I kinda added the suggestion to the last letter we wrote cause I know what you're a needing even if you don't. I figured what you're a needing, is a wife:"

"Like hell, I am!"

"Ah, if ye'll be excusing me, gentlemen?" Kate's tentative brogue cut into their conversation. "Me thinks I best go have a little chat with me companion so ye can have some privacy."

Pinning his half-breed friend with a purposeful gaze, Caleb said to his intended, "Thank you kindly, Miss Kate. That sounds like a fine idea. Me and Hawke got some straightening out to do."

With that, she maneuvered around the far end of the couch—the end which didn't feature the formidable obstacle in the shape of one Mr. John Winterhawke—and hurried over to where Lacey stood. "I canna
believe
what a dreadful affair I've got ye into, lass." With one eye on the Men as they argued in hushed tones, she kept her voice to a whisper. "Yer only hope is that my dear Mr. Weatherspoon will sport ye the passage back to Ireland."

"Ireland?" Lacey dug in for a fight. "I'm not going back to the homeland, no matter what happens here."

"But girl!" Kate stared over at the men, her eyes huge. "Haven't ye noticed something...
different
about Mr. Winterhawke? Me thinks he's one of those wild Indians ye know of 'em, heathens who'd just as soon peel the hair from yer head as pluck the bloom of a fuchsia to trim it."

"
You really... think so?
" Tremors of both awe and fear raced up her spine. "How can you be so sure?"

"Take a good look at him, lass, see for yerself!"

Needing no further encouragement as she'd been sneaking brief glimpses of the intensely mesmerizing man anyway since the moment they first stepped into the tidy little cottage, Lacey cast a furtive, glance his way. Now that he'd removed the coat from his tall, lean body to reveal a rawhide shirt with fringe which swung down from his elbows, she could see how that, added to his rawhide trousers, colorfully-embroidered leggings, and hat which featured a pair of eagle feathers hanging over the brim, might give credence to Kate's theory.

Lacey had certainly never seen a man dressed in such a manner before, but something more supported the notion that this man might indeed be a wild Indian; his skin was reddish-brown, looking bronzed by the firelight, and he possessed a rather reckless, uncivilized countenance. John Winterhawke had a way of moving which all but said, "go to the devil." That, along with the feral gleam in his eyes insinuating that he might just
be
the devil, was enough to convince her that he could be the heathen Kate suggested he was.

Lacey shivered at the prospect of calling such a man, "husband," but she vowed not to turn back now. "I-I don't care about Mr. Winterhawke's heritage. I t-think he looks j-just... fine. If he'll be agreeing to marry the likes of me, then I'm staying."

Kate shot her a look of both anxiety and relief, as if she were worried about Lacey, but too eager to be rid of her to argue the point further. "If yer sure ye'll not consider returning to Ireland, lass, I'll do what I can to see that ye and... that the pair of ye are wed."

Across the room and in tones much louder than the womenfolk, the men were still slinging verbal mud at one another. Smarting from his protégé's latest accusation—that maybe he'd gone numb north of his ears—Caleb muttered under his breath, "Well just maybe
you've
gone
blind
as a post hole! Have you snuck a good peek at that gal?"

Grumbling to himself, Hawke said, "Isn't much to see of her all wrapped up in that cape the way she is, but I don't care if she's the best looking thing since the spring thaw. I
don't
want or need a wife!"

"Cape's off," Caleb said in a low whisper. "Take a look at her, have a gander at that nice skin. I'll bet that gal's face is softer than the inside of a school marm's thigh."

"You think so?" Hawke said sarcastically. "I wouldn't know that kind of soft, now would I."

Caleb ignored the reference to the fact that no self-respecting white woman would allow a half-breed to touch her, and went on with his argument. "Just take a look at the gal, damn it. A good look—she's a beauty, Hawke, a real beauty. I swear, if'n I hadn't already made a pledge to Kate, I'd go after that young one myself."

Because Caleb was so adamant, Hawke grudgingly cast a disinterested eye in Miss O'Carroll's direction. What he saw surprised him with its impact, capturing him as surely as he'd captured Phantom, the renegade mustang stallion who now serviced the mares at Winterhawke Ranch. It wasn't just the delicate features he'd noticed earlier beneath the hood of her cape, but the way her hair and porcelain skin set them off. Hawke had never seen a woman with hair the color of a new penny, or skin so smooth and pale. She wasn't beautiful exactly, but stunning and alluring, the kind of woman who made a man stare at her with an almost morbid fascination. Hawke's mind told him to look away from her, that he was making a fool of himself, but for some reason, he couldn't react with his usual swiftness.

"Not so bad after all, eh?" said Caleb, delighted by his friend's response.

Finally able to look away from the young woman, Hawke furrowed his brow. "Yes, she really is very handsome, which makes me wonder—why would a good-looking white woman like that agree to marry a half-breed like me? What do you suppose is wrong with her?"

As Caleb mulled this over, Kate returned. "I hope I'm not interrupting ye, but I thought I'd let ye know that Miss O'Carroll has agreed to uphold her end of the bargain to marry Mr. Winterhawke. I assume that he's in agreement as well?"

Hawke turned on her. "You may as well assume that you never left Ireland, in that case, because—"

"Hold up a minute," said Caleb, cutting him off. "You know I've never called any markers in on you before, Hawke, and I didn't cause I never really figured that you owed me for all I done for you. I done what I done cause I like you and wanted what's best for you. Still do." He leaned back against the arm of the couch, resting his aching back, and leveled his friend with his gaze. "I'm calling in a marker now. I'm asking you to do this one thing for me; give the gal a chance. Give her time to prove herself to you, say till the preacher comes to marry me and Kate."

Hawke groaned. How could Caleb have put him on such a spot? There was no way in hell that he could deny the man his request—not if he wanted to enjoy his peace of mind and the solitude he'd grown to love, that is. He would have to at least look as if he were "giving the girl a chance," whatever that meant. Then, if he lived through it, he would simply declare this unwanted bride as unfit. There was really no other choice.

Speaking quietly and without enthusiasm, Hawke said, "I guess I could give her a try. Just what is it you want me to do?"

Caleb beamed. "Not much. Just test her a little, see if you don't find that having a wife around is a blessing, not a curse."

"Test her?" asked Kate, alarmed. "In what way? I'll not stand for any improper behavior."

"Don't worry your head, Miss Kate." Caleb winked at her, then gave Hawke a meaningful look. "I
guarantee
you that my friend here won't be compromising your friend in any way. He can be trusted. Ain't that right?"

Hawke nodded, glanced at the young woman who still stood quietly against the far wall, and sighed heavily. "How do you want me to go about this 'test,' Caleb?"

"Why don't you come by tomorrow morning, pick Miss O'Carroll up—and in a wagon by the way—then take her back to your place for the day to see how she'll fit in?"

Again Hawke glanced at the woman, and again he wondered:
What's wrong with her?
Keeping a puzzled gaze on her, he asked, "Is that all right with you, ma'am?"

Lacey, who hadn't taken her eyes off the Indian since Kate had left her alone, had to glance away so intense was his scrutiny. "'Tis a good idea, I suppose, though I do not know what you'll be expecting of me."

"Not too much." Hawke strode over to the chair where he'd left his jacket, donned it, then proceeded on to the elk rack where he'd hung his hat. "Just the usual things," he said, speaking directly to her as he fit his hat to his head. "Cooking, cleaning, mending, a little help in the barn. Think you can manage those few chores?"

Rising to the challenge she heard in his tone and saw in his unnerving gaze, Lacey set her chin. "In my sleep, Mr. Winterhawke. In the dead of night."

Flashing a smirk—the expression really couldn't have been called a smile—Hawke touched the brim of his hat. "In that case, I'll be seeing you first thing in the morning."

It wasn't until after he'd gone, that what he'd demanded of her finally sank into Lacey's mind;
cooking, cleaning, mending?
Never mind the part about the barn—she'd never so much as
seen
the inside of a barn.

In fact, the only chores Lacey had ever been responsible for, or even expected to perform from the time she was seven years old, was to scrub floors and make certain that she returned the books she borrowed from the small library at St. Josephine's. She did this without question, for failure to return books resulted in the loss of library privileges, a thing Lacey would never have allowed to happen to her. Reading had been her, only source of pleasure or avenue of escape from the hospital until the night Nurse Quinlin stole her away under cover of darkness.

But
cooking, cleaning, and mending?

How did one go about the preparation of food or the fashioning of clothing? And how in the devil would she learn to do any of it—by morning, no less?

Never take a wife who has no faults.

—Old Irish proverb

Chapter 3

Lacey had hardly slept since the night she escaped from St. Josephine's. She had been too excited about the upcoming adventure. Now as the darkness settled over her she should have been resting, but her mind carried her back through her long journey, immersing her once again in the sights, smells, and sounds of all that was so new.

First there had been the huge ship and the rough, but thoroughly exciting crossing of the Atlantic Ocean. Then, after stepping foot on American soil for the first time, she'd felt a delicious, almost overpowering sense of freedom she'd never known, even as a child before "the accident." Topping all that, Lacey recalled the unparalleled excitement of making the train journey halfway across this great new country. She'd experienced a lifetime of memories in just a few short weeks. And now God willing, she would finally know the thrill of having a man in her life. Someone to call her own.

Shivering with excitement over the idea, Lacey rolled to her side on the lumpy couch and faced the fireplace. Due to Caleb's splinted leg and the fact that he didn't fit anywhere else, he stayed in his big four-poster in the nice airy bedroom he would soon share with Kate, while she made herself at home in the small office at the back of the house, sleeping on the cot generally used by Hawke on those nights when he stayed over. This left the couch in the living room to Lacey, and though it was as comfortable as any bed she'd slept in since leaving Ireland, she'd tossed and turned for half the night. And it wasn't just the stimulation of the trip keeping her awake.

This Indian who was to become her husband had at least a little to do with her insomnia. Even if he was a bit on the gruff side, something about him fascinated her, something wicked and terribly exciting. What would it be like to become the wife of a man like that, she wondered, to walk side by side with such a proud and confident individual? Lacey thought back to the way he'd stared at her—in particular, to that intense, deliberate, and demanding gaze, a look with enough arrogance to suggest that it had the power to beckon her on its own. Even the color of his eyes was menacing, the same silver-green hue of the foam-capped Atlantic breaking against the Cliffs of Moher. Dark, powerful, and dangerous.

Lacey shivered again at the thought of being so helpless under this man's gaze, then tugged the blanket up tight beneath her chin. Still thinking of Hawke, and even daring to wonder if he might try to kiss her once they were wed, she finally felt herself drift off to sleep. In what seemed like moments later, there came a loud pounding on the door. Disoriented and confused, Lacey flung herself off the couch and tumbled down to the floor.