The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (5 page)

Again came the pounding.

"J-Just a moment," she cried, still dazed and confused. Dragging herself to her feet, Lacey followed a thin beam of light cast off by the dying fire, and made her way to the door. After struggling with the thick plank which served as a latch, she finally removed it and pulled the door open. Hawke stood at the threshold between the porch and the house, his rugged features illuminated by the lantern hanging from the jamb. Beyond him, the sky was steel gray.

Hawke stared down at the sleepy woman, taking the yards and yards of rumpled cotton nightgown, the wildly disheveled mop of coppery red curls, and the dull look in her normally bright blue eyes. His breath lodged in his throat. While he'd hoped to catch the Irish miss fast asleep, he hadn't figured on her looking so warm and cuddly, or so innocently provocative. Something warm trickled through his chest, then flared and spread below.

Shaking off the sudden, crazy effect her appearance had on him, Hawke cleared his throat and bellowed the obvious. "You're not dressed."

Lacey glanced down at herself, finally awake enough to realize she was standing before a man in a most immodest state. She quickly wrapped her arms across her bosom and crossed her legs at the ankle. "Of course not, Sir. 'Tisn't even morning yet. What are you wanting at such an ungodly hour?"

"You," he said, pleased to see her eyes grow clear and alert, enough so he noticed they were not simply blue, but sparkling with minute specks of gold. Not so pleased by the effect this discovery had on him, Hawke brushed past her, stepped into the room, and headed for the fireplace. "I said I'd be here first thing in the morning," he muttered angrily. "This
is
the first thing in the morning in these parts. I'll give you till my hands are warm to get dressed, then I've got to be heading back to the ranch—with or without you."

Her mouth and eyes a trio of perfect circles, Lacey whirled around in a cloud of cotton, and hurried off to the office where her luggage was stored with Kate's. "I will not be long, Mr. Winterhawke," she called over her shoulder. "Do be sure to wait for me."

Muttering to himself now, Hawke reached inside his coat to where he'd sewn a wide, deep pocket in the thick lamb's wool lining, and pulled out his ledger. This was one list he did
not
intend to keep in the back of his mind. When the time came to turn down Caleb's generous offer of a bride, Hawke wanted concrete proof that she was completely unacceptable. After flipping the ledger open to the page already marked, "Miss Lacey O'Carroll," he slipped the pencil out of its sheath, moistened the tip with his tongue, then made his first entry under the heading,
Disadvantages:

1. Slothful

Then, just because he was still irritated over the way his heart had lurched when he first saw her, and again when she'd looked at him with eyes like a gold-miner's dream, he glanced at the couch where she'd been sleeping. The cushions were askew and in need of straightening, and both the blanket and pillow she'd used had been tossed onto the floor in an untidy heap. Moistening the pencil again, he made another entry in the same column:

2. Messy

Hawke was toying with the idea of adding a third complaint to the column—something to do with tardiness—when Lacey came bounding into the room again.

"There, and I'm ready to go to work now," she said breathlessly.

Slowly turning toward her, Hawke saw that she'd changed into a navy blue skirt and plain white blouse, and that she'd twisted her mounds of springy red curls into a rather sloppy knot at the crown of her head. Wondering how long it would take for those unruly ringlets to explode from their precarious bun, he crossed the room and took her velvet cape from the antler.

"Is this cape all you've got by way of a coat?"

"'Tis a cloak, and yes, sir, 'tis my only wrap. Why?"

He shook his head. "I don't know what the weather's like where you come from, but even in summer, it can be colder than a witches'... carcass in these mountains." He sighed heavily, making a point. "I've got some extra blankets in the wagon you can use for now, but we'll have to fix you up with some kind of coat if I'm going to be hauling you back and forth between ranches the next few, days." Then he turned on his heel and went out the door without so much as a "follow me."

It took nearly an hour to cover the steep twisting three miles of rocky road that led to Winterhawke Ranch. During that entire time, not one word passed between Lacey and her somewhat reluctant fiancé. He hadn't even offered to help her climb up on the wagon. She snuck a quick peek at Hawke, noticed his rigid, brooding profile, and supposed she was lucky that he'd even bothered to give her a couple of blankets to ward off the chill. It
was
cold outside, near to freezing she figured, and in mid-spring no less! What must the winters be like in a place such as this? And how would she ever live through them should he decide to keep her?

Throughout the trip, Lacey contented herself by getting a lay of the land, the vague light of dawn giving her teasing glimpses of the forests and mountains ahead, their shadowy tree tops set off by shiny patches of snow still left upon the ground. After negotiating a sharp bend in the road, the final turn as it happened, the wagon strained up a tree-lined path, then finally came to a halt in front of a large log house. As before, Hawke simply climbed down from the wagon, leaving Lacey to fend for herself.

Wondering how the devil she would ever get this non-communicative man to accept her as his bride—and be kind to her in the bargain—Lacey stumbled along after Hawke across some kind of stone path, up five wooden stairs, and finally over a high threshold.

Once inside the house, Hawke struck a thatch and lit a wrought iron lamp mounted on the wall near the door. Staring into Lacey's eternally-curious blue eyes, he said gruffly, "I'll go find a coat that you can work in, then we've got to get busy. We're running late this morning."

"A moment, please?" He complied, but continued to stare at her from under a frown. "Forgive me if I've been at fault or if I've upset you somehow, Mr. Winterhawke, but—"

"Stop calling me that." No one, but no one had ever addressed him as "mister" anything. Hawke had been called many names over the years, to be sure, but never anything close to
Mr
. Winterhawke. It was an odd sensation to hear his name spoken this way—one he was pretty sure he didn't like. "Call me Hawke like everyone else does."

"If you wish it. As I was saying..." Lacey left the rest of the sentence unsaid, as her "doting" fiancé had walked away and disappeared into the bowels of his home. Now what? And exactly what made the man behave so rudely toward her? Blast the luck! What if he was
always
in such a bad humor, and his foul temper had nothing whatsoever to do with her? She wasn't at all sure that convincing him to marry her would be worth the trouble.

Deciding to have a better look at what might be her new home, Lacey glanced around the house. The place was magnificent. Made of thick, aromatic pine logs, the living room featured a high A-shaped ceiling braced by additional split logs and a center pole that featured eight spokes which reached up to support the ceiling in inverted tepee fashion. The immense stone fireplace at the narrow end of the room added a cozy touch, and with the fire burning at low as it was, turned the log walls to a rich dark maple color. But that was where this room's charm ended.

Caleb's modest little house had lovely lace curtains at the windows, shellacked floors, and thick rugs scattered throughout, whereas this place almost boasted of its lack of refinement. The huge bay window, including a pair of smaller ones to each side, was bare, inviting the night and its chill inside the room. As far as Lacey could tell, the floors were not shellacked—that was a guess since dirt and great clumps of mud seemed to be scattered everywhere—and there wasn't a rug to be seen. As for furnishings, the overstuffed chair and small lamp table positioned directly in front of the fireplace were apparently all he owned.

"Here you go, ma'am," Hawke said as he strolled back into the room and handed her a small jacket. "Take off that silly cape and put this on."

Lacey snatched the garment from his hand. "Forgive my insolence, Mr.... Hawke, but if I've done something to offend you, I would like to know what 'tis. Seems to me that you're very unhappy in my presence, but for the life of me, I can not understand why. Would you mind telling me?"

She looked like a banti hen standing there, her feathers all ruffled, eyes flashing with a temper to match her hair, and for a moment, Hawke felt a little spot inside him go soft, the part of him that always melted for any kind of misfit be it human or animal. But then he reminded himself that fragile Miss Lacey was in no way, shape, or form, a misfit. Even though he still wondered what was wrong with her, he knew that all she need do was flash those blue eyes and toss those coppery ringlets, and she could have the man of her choice in any town. In any territory. She didn't need him. And he sure as hell didn't need her. Hawke toughened himself against those beautiful Irish eyes.

"The only thing that offends me, ma'am, is wasting time. This ranch runs on the same schedule as the sun, and I don't like that schedule messed with." He turned and headed for a wide arched doorway, but kept talking over his shoulder. "We've got to get breakfast out of the way now if we hope to get on schedule, so it's about time you went to work. I'll be right back to get you started on your chores."

Although still less than thrilled by the man's consistently bad attitude, after he disappeared into the other room, Lacey slipped out of her cloak to don the warm, sheepskin jacket as instructed. The sleeves were a wee bit long, but otherwise, it was a decent fit: She wondered briefly who it might belong to—it was much too small to have covered the Indian's broad shoulders—but then she heard what sounded like pots clanging together in the other room, and in the next instant, Hawke returned. In one hand he held a straw basket, in the other, a bucket.

Offering both items to her, he said, "I'll fire up the stove and put on a pot of coffee. Do you think you can manage to go out to the barn to get the milk and eggs?"

Again rising to the challenge in his tone, Lacey cocked her chin. "I'll be doing my best. Where is this barn?"

Hawke led her back across the threshold to the covered porch, lifted a lantern from its hook, and then lit it. "Go back down the path, veer to right and you'll walk right into the doors."

The sky, she noticed, had lightened considerably; making it easy for her to see the bell-shaped barn from the porch. Finding her place of work would be no problem. Accomplishing tasks she didn't know the first thing about might not be so easy. Should she tell him she'd never gone after milk and eggs before? Of were these simple chores that even a child would be expected to manage?

"You'll need to light the inside of the barn," Hawke explained as he handed Lacey the lantern.

Shifting her load, she hooked the basket over her arm, gripped the pail with her left hand, then took the lantern with her right; careful to hide her scarred palm from him. The lamp swayed, nearly slipping off her wrist, but she managed to right it again.

"Be very careful with that!" Hawke warned. "I lost one house due to a careless fire. I don't plan on losing another." He thought of his other "guest" and the anxiety this woman's presence might cause. "There is one more thing; stay out of the loft."

"The loft?"

"Yes. Don't even climb the ladder to have a look at it. There's nothing but bedding straw up there anyway. Any other questions?"

Tons
, but she wasn't sure which, if any, should be asked. So Lacey repeated his instructions. "I go to the barn, get milk from what? A goat, a—"

"My cow, Hazel. She's the only one out there."

"Get milk from Hazel." Lacey nodded to herself. "And eggs, from the chickens?"

"Yeah. I let my chickens have the run of the barn, so you'll find them everywhere. Just don't disturb the brooder in the stall against the north wall. She'll be hatching chicks in the next week or so. And stay away from the three closed stalls. I've got my best brood mares in them due to foal any day now. I don't want them upset. Understand what you're to do?"

North?
Which way was north? And stalls, brooders, and brood mares? Lacey really didn't know what he meant by any of that, but Hawke's impatient tone pretty well told her that she'd better have understood, so she gave him a wan smile. "I'll be doing my best for you."

"Well? You can't do your best just standing there—get a move on. It'll be noon before you get done at the rate you're going."

Although inflamed by his consistently critical tones, Lacey didn't want to give Hawke another reason to bark at her. Careful not to trip over the split-stone walk, she hurried down the path and made her way to the barn. The big double doors were closed, but not latched or padlocked, so she didn't even have to set part of her load down to gain entrance. She caught one of the doors with the toe of her shoe and pulled until the crack was wide enough for her to fit through. Then she stepped inside.

Lacey was at once struck by the warm, somehow comforting aroma of the animals, the pungent, earthy scent of horse and cow sweat in contrast to the almost odorless air of the frigid morning outside. As the animals detected her presence, chickens began to cluck, horses nickered softly, and a cow, Hazel, she assumed, cut loose with a loud bellow.