Three Times a Bride (9 page)

“Oh, no!”

Rachel raced across the kitchen, waving away smoke as she went. Using her apron as a pot holder, she jerked open the oven door and snatched the cookie sheet from the rack. She’d failed again. In place of the deliciously browned gingerbread men she’d envisioned as she’d mixed and rolled and formed the batter, she had contorted lumps of burned, foul-smelling dough.

After starting the day so positively, Rachel could scarcely believe things had gone sour so quickly. A ranch wife, was she? Sick with disappointment, she carried the ruined cookies to the open window and tossed them onto the dirt. At the same time, she saw Clint heading with long, impatient strides toward the porch. “Dammit, Rachel, are you trying to burn the house down?” he called teasingly when he caught sight of her at the window.

“It isn’t funny, Clint Rafferty!” she shouted back. “I swear I did everything right this time, and they just up and burned. I even had Cody read the recipe to me three times so I’d be sure not to make a mistake. I think it’s the dad-blamed stove, that’s what I think. I hate the darned old thing!”

“Now, darlin’,” Clint began as he entered the kitchen, only to stop dead when she whirled toward him, her eyes huge and wisps of soft brown hair curling against her neck where it had escaped the ribbon.

“It
is
the stove,” she declared, waving her hand toward the smoke that billowed from the oven. “Not even God himself could produce a decent meal on that…monster.”

Clint only just managed to keep from grinning. “Guess it is a mite old at that, but Sam Butts at the mercantile swore it was in good working order when he sold it to me.”

“Old,” she insisted, her slightly narrowed eyes darting blue daggers, first toward the stove and then toward him. “That contraption was
old
when Methuselah was still a boy.”

“Did you test the temperature by sprinkling flour on the bottom of the oven?”

“Of course I did! It’s the stove, I tell you.”

“And when you checked the flour to see how brown it was, could you see it clearly?”

She gestured vaguely with a hand. “Sort of.”

The smoke had cleared enough now that Clint could see her cheeks, and he couldn’t help but admire the lovely pink they were suddenly turning. And with each agitated breath she took, her breasts pushed against the thin material of her pretty blue shirtwaist.

He advanced slowly, careful to keep his expression sober. But Lord save his sorry hide, she was pretty when she got upset. And almost as pretty when she wasn’t, come to think of it. He could have done a lot worse for himself. Hell, he still couldn’t believe his luck.

“Well, if you’re right, I guess we’ll just have to add a new stove to our list,” he offered in as sincere a tone as he could manage. “Right after I buy a new pair of spectacles for my nearsighted little wife.” When she shot him another glare, he held up a staying hand. “Just on the off chance it’s your eyes that’s the problem and not the stove. If you can’t see to
do a proper sprinkle test, honey, it’s a little hard to get the oven temperature just right. Not saying that’s the case.”

Her soft mouth firmed, and her chin hiked a little higher. “But I was so careful!”

Clint’s heart caught at the pain in her eyes. To him it was just a sheet of burned gingerbread, but to Rachel it obviously meant a lot more. “It isn’t your fault. Once we go to town and get your spare spectacles, stuff like this won’t happen anymore.”

“I promised Cody gingerbread and milk when he finished his chores.”

Her lips quivered ever so slightly before she turned away. In the past, Clint had had a busy man’s impatience with displays of emotion. Not only were they nonproductive and time-consuming, but he’d always considered them to be a surefire sign of weakness. With Rachel, however, he couldn’t quite manage to feel impatient. He guessed he should thank the good Lord he’d never had sisters. They would have all been spoiled rotten.

“Cody’ll understand,” he said, turning her toward him again. His breath caught when he saw tears dulling the vibrance of those out-of-focus blue eyes.

“No, he won’t, and I don’t blame him,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to the level of his chest. “A promise is a promise.”

Unable to resist, Clint slid his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, remembering as he did how soft and warm her skin felt against his palms. And how eagerly she’d welcomed him into the moist cradle of her thighs.

“Then we’ll make more,” he found himself promising, and in a voice so husky it sounded alien. “I’ll help you.”

She smiled a little at that before shaking her head. “There’s no more flour,” she murmured, bringing one hand up to rest against his midriff. “At least none I’d want to use.”

Cupping her face, he nudged her chin higher, waiting
until her gaze found his before he gently asked, “What happened?”

She shook her head, and he found himself wanting to kiss her so badly he was all knotted up inside. All morning long he’d been looking for an excuse to ride back to the house. And her. Not so much to kiss her again, though that was on his mind, but more to make sure he hadn’t imagined the look of pure happiness he’d seen in her eyes over breakfast. It wasn’t every day a man found himself in danger of busting his buttons out of sheer male pride, but damn, he felt good. Just knowing he’d been the first to see that creamy skin in lamplight put a lump the size of an egg in his throat.

Damn, he loved her. Not that he was anywheres near ready to say that out loud. Last night he’d gone so far as to tell her he
thought
he was falling in love with her, but that was a far cry from admitting he was already a goner. A man had to consider the consequences before he gave up that much of himself, especially to a woman who’d been so reluctant to share his name—and so nervous about sharing his bed.

“Tell me what happened to the flour,” he urged, more to hear the music of her voice than from any burning curiosity.

“You’ll think I’m hopeless.”

Using his thumb, he brushed away a smudge of flour from her chin and felt her tremble. Her skin was supple and warm, her milk-white flesh rose-petal soft. Beneath the plain blue skirt that hid all but the toes of her shoes, her thighs were sleek and delectably plump, her calves perfectly formed, her ankles trim. To night, when the lamp was turned low and the door locked, he would lap every inch of her with his tongue, and she would make that little growling sound in her throat again.

His body swelled against the fly of his jeans. “I think you’re adorable.”

“No, I’m not. I’m clumsy and nearsighted and I can’t sew a straight seam.”

“You just need your glasses and a little practice, that’s all.”

Rachel felt a little flutter in the vicinity of her heart. Though it hurt to admit it, even to herself, she craved Clint’s approval. Almost as much as she craved his love.

Even so, she forced herself to be honest. Despite the fact that their marriage had been precipitated by trickery, or perhaps because it had, she desperately wanted their life together to be based on mutual trust. Still, it took her three gulping deep breaths before she was able to blurt out, “I tripped over the train you carved for Cody and, uh…dropped the flour crock.”

“It broke?”

She nodded and said, “It took me an hour to get the flour swept out of the floor cracks. And while I was busy doing that, Useless stole the chicken Daniel plucked for to night’s dinner.”

“You let Daniel kill a chicken?”

“Oh, no. The poor thing died of old age. That’s why it’s so awful that Useless stole it. I mean, it’s probably not very often that a chicken just up and dies like that.”

“Probably more often than you think. Every spring we buy batches of chicks, all at the same time, so when they get old and start keelin’ over, they tend to go one right after another. I wouldn’t be surprised if another one isn’t breathin’ its last right this minute. We might have chicken for supper yet.”

“Only if I don’t let Useless steal the meat!”

“Heaven help us,” Clint drawled, his eyes taking on a sudden twinkle within the frame of his sin-black lashes.

“That’s just it, Clint. I’m beginning to think that not even Gabriel and all his archangels can make me into the kind of wife you deserve.”

His firm mouth twitched at the corners. Then it curved slowly into a lopsided, boyish grin. The look in his eyes, however, was hot enough to heat her blood.

“Far as I’m concerned you can burn gingerbread from now till doomsday, Rachel, and I’ll not offer one word of complaint,” he said in that gravelly voice she had come to love. “Not so long as you keep snugglin’ that nice little fanny of yours up against me of a night.”

He skimmed a hand up her side to her breast. His fingers were hard, his touch gentle as he cupped her flesh. “As for the damned flour, it isn’t your fault Cody left his train layin’ out.”

Though two layers of clothing prevented skin from caressing skin, she began to burn where his hand pressed. “Mmm,” was all she could manage as a response.

“As for the stolen chicken, I guess I could shoot Useless,” he offered.

Unable to restrain herself, Rachel arched toward him and at the same time encircled his strong brown neck with her arms. “Just kiss me,” she whispered, drawing him down to her.

His groan shuddered against her parted lips a split second before his mouth closed over hers. His lips were hot, his breath moist, his tongue arrogantly demanding.

Rachel felt her heart begin to race and a dull roaring filled her ears, as eagerly, desperately, she arched against him, her body responding as though driven by a will of its own. She exulted in the harsh rasp of his breathing.

When his hands tugged her shirtwaist free, she gasped. When his fingertips sought her breast again, she moaned. Between hard, eager kisses, she tore at the buttons of the chambray shirt he’d plucked straight from the ironing basket that morning.

Just as her shirtwaist fell open, she heard a sound. A voice, calling Clint’s name. A woman’s voice. He jerked free, his hands instinctively drawing her against the protection of his big chest, even as he turned toward the sound.

Heart thundering, and lungs starved for air, Clint fought to clear his head. He knew that voice….

“Clinton? Is that you?”

“Aunt Hester?” he said in stunned disbelief, a split second before his aunt’s rotund form filled the doorway.

Like a plump blackbird spreading its wings, his aunt, dressed head to toe in mourning, held her arms out at her sides. “I got your letter, and here I am, come to keep your house and help raise those dear great-nephews of mine!”

Rachel poked her fork forlornly at the stewed turnips
remaining on her plate, unable to force another bite past the bitter lump lodged in her throat. To her right, Cody was busily gnawing the last few shreds of meat from his second chicken leg. To her left, Matt was shoveling down his third piece of sour lemon pie. Rachel had to admit that prior to Aunt Hester’s arrival two days ago, the boys had never eaten so heartily nor praised the food more fulsomely. Even Clint had taken to coming to the table with an eager glint in his eyes.

Oh, he never came right out and said he preferred Aunt Hester’s cooking to the pathetic offerings
she’d
put on the table, but the signs of his newfound contentment were so obvious that even she, blind as she was without her spectacles, could see them.

Take this morning, for example, she thought, stabbing her fork at another perfectly cooked turnip slice. Why, the man had actually waxed poetic over his portly aunt’s buttermilk biscuits. His brothers had been too busy to comment in kind, engaged as they had been, slathering on strawberry jam that
Hester had brought with her from Ohio. The mound of biscuits had disappeared from the basket in a trice—unlike
her
biscuits, which generally lasted a good three days.

“There’s more pie, boys,” Aunt Hester sung out from her place to Clint’s right.

“I’ll have another piece,” Cole said eagerly, shoving his plate forward.

“Me, too, Aunt Hester,” Cody shouted. “I ain’t never tasted anything so good.”

Aunt Hester beamed as she slid huge slabs of pie onto each of their plates. “Clint? There’s one last piece of pie here with your name on it.”

“No, thanks, Aunt Hester.” Clint put down his fork and leaned back. “But like Cody said, that’s about as good as pie gets.”

“Why thank you, Nephew. That’s just about the nicest compliment a lady can get from a gentleman.”

At that, Matt leaned close to Rachel’s ear to whisper, “Remind me to use that line on Dora Faye next time I’m in the Golden Goose.”

Rachel gave his booted foot a good kick, which only served to widen his wicked grin. “Careful, Sis,” he whispered, offering her a broad wink. “That there’s the foot I use to prop up the bar of a Saturday night.”

Seeing his brother cozying up to Rachel like a stallion sniffing heat would normally put Clint into a foul mood, but with his belly full of his aunt’s good cooking he was too mellow to do more than scowl a warning in Matt’s direction.

For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Rachel seemed different since Aunt Hester’s sudden arrival. Though he wasn’t partial to analyzing emotions—his or anyone else’s—he couldn’t help noticing how quiet she’d turned, like an un-shielded lamp suddenly extinguished by an unexpected gust of wind.

Rubbing a hand across his belly, he thought back to the
scolding Aunt Hester had given him her first night on the place. “Why, the poor girl is plumb worn to a nub,” she’d chastized. “Trying to handle a house full of rowdy men and deal with all their trappings is more than a new bride should have to do.”

Maybe Aunt Hester was right, Clint thought, staring the length of the table at his wife’s bowed head. Unlike other nights when she’d been slaving over steaming pots, her shiny brown hair was neatly tied back by a plain black ribbon, and her white shirtwaist was crisp with fresh starch and neatly tucked. Damned if she didn’t look as young and innocent as a school girl, he thought, covertly eyeing the swell of her breasts under the modest attire.

Guilt stabbed him hard, reminding him of all that he and his brothers had demanded of her these past weeks. Hell, he’d brought her home to a pigsty and all but insisted she turn it into a home. And without much help, if truth were told. At least, not much from him.

But that was about to change. Now that Aunt Hester had a good hold on the running of the house, Rachel would have more time for fun. In a day or two, the branding would be done and he’d be able to take some time off. If he got a decent price for the beef this year, he might be able to treat Rachel to a few days in San Francisco. He’d heard tell of some right fancy hotels, with beds soft enough even for her delicate skin.

Just thinking about the two of them stealing off alone had his blood heating. Aunt Hester’s arrival had put a crimp in his lovemaking, no doubt about it. This winter, he would build on another bedroom for himself and Rachel that would afford them a little more privacy, but for now he couldn’t help worrying about making noise. The boys had all moved into two of the sleeping areas upstairs, leaving the third empty for Aunt Hester. But that didn’t put the woman far
enough away to suit Clint. Those damned corn husks! They crinkled every time a man so much as wiggled a toe.

Which was why Clint looked forward to a stay in San Francisco like a parched man did drink. Lord, but Rachel’d be a pretty sight with her hair spread out on one of those lacy hotel pillows.

“Aunt Hester’s promised to make me cookies after the dishes are done,” Cody piped up between bites. His announcement jerked Clint from his mental meanderings back to the present. “Didn’t you, Aunt Hester?”

“I recollect I did,” Hester acknowledged with a nod of her graying head.

“I’ll help,” Rachel volunteered, rising quickly to take up her still half-filled plate.

“No!” chorused Cody and Daniel before exchanging sheepish looks.

“Uh, that is, you’re lookin’ kind of tired to night,” Daniel amended quickly. “Ain’t that right, Clint?”

Still clutching her plate, Rachel squinted the length of the table at the blur she knew to be her husband.

“Actually, I was just thinkin’ she looked particularly tidy to night,” Clint drawled.

Tidy? Rachel glanced down at the plain black skirt more suited for a matron of advanced years than a bride. She’d worn it because the wide sash reduced her waist to a mere wisp, something she’d heard men found irresistible. Instead, Clint thought she looked
tidy.
Lord, he might as well stand up in church and declare her a miserable failure as a wife
and
lover.

The lump in her throat took on sharp edges. Just when she had finally begun to feel at home, the family she’d grown to love was letting her know how little they valued her. “I suppose I should really attend to the mending—”

“Bless your heart for offering, but there’s no need,” Aunt
Hester interrupted in her hearty midwestern twang. “Since I had a few spare minutes, I managed to finish the last of it before supper.”

Rachel blinked, seeing the overloaded mending basket in her mind’s eye. It had always seemed like an unscalable mountain. “All of it? The socks, too?”

Though she couldn’t see Aunt Hester’s face, she could hear her answering chuckle. “Why, child, it wasn’t such a chore, not when a body knows what she’s doing.”

Which I don’t
, Rachel thought, turning away from the table.

Just a few minutes before noon the following day, Clint came in from the fields in hopes of stealing Rachel away on a nice long ride for a picnic. For dessert, he planned to make wild and noisy love to her. As he entered the kitchen, he slapped the dust from his hat and tossed it onto the table. Aunt Hester was outside boiling linen, and the house seemed strangely quiet. Too quiet, come to think of it.

“Rachel? Where are you, girl?” Hearing no answer, he strode impatiently toward the master bedroom, his boot heels thudding noisily on the freshly waxed planks. “Rachel?”

The door stood open. Inside, where the knotty pine bedstead gleamed under a fresh coat of polish, the rag rugs were almost bright as new and the windows actually sparkled. Aunt Hester had worked her magic once more, and Clint allowed himself a rare moment of self-congratulation. Despite temporary inconveniences because of inadequate sleeping arrangements, writing to Aunt Hester had been a stroke of genius, sure enough. Finally, he had the smoothly running home he’d craved. Once he got a master bedroom built onto the existing house, everything would be perfect.

As Clint moved into the immaculate bedroom, he thought it seemed too empty. Even the dresser that had held Rachel’s female doodads looked a little too naked for his peace of mind. Alarm snaked through him, settling its coils around his
gut and squeezing hard. Heart tripping, he strode to the armoire and tore open the door. Rachel’s side was empty. There wasn’t a fussy shirtwaist or leg-of-mutton sleeve or long skirt in sight. Even the jumble of small shoes in the bottom had disappeared.

“Shit!”

Leaving the armoire door open, he turned to the chiffonier and jerked open the drawers one by one. All empty, save for the last which held his long johns and socks. Damn the woman’s hide; she had a wagon load of explaining to do.

Seconds later Clint strode furiously across the yard toward his aunt. “Have you seen my wife?” he demanded, planting his feet wide and jamming hard fists on his hips.

Aunt Hester finished pinning one of Cody’s shirts to the line before turning her gaze in his direction. “Last I seen, she was riding out of here on a bay mare with all her belongings strapped on the rump,” she declared, her mouth tugged down by the weight of her glum mood. “Riding astride, I might add, with her petticoats hiked clear to her knees and her bloomers displayed for the whole county to see.”

Clint snapped a fast look at the rutted trail heading toward town. What ever dust Rachel had raised had long since settled, and the only thing moving between him and the distant horizon were swaying pine trees.

“Why?” he muttered, forgetting for a moment he wasn’t alone.

“Don’t know the why of it myself. I asked, mind. But all she gave me was a damned fool answer.”

“Which was?”

“That she kept up her end of the bargain, but now that I’m here, she don’t have to anymore.” Hester fastened worried eyes on him. “Nephew, never mistake it. I’d rather leave than cause trouble between you and your missus. I guess, in my eagerness to make myself needed, I might’ve started off a little strong. Maybe she felt like I was pushing her out.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Clint bit out. And he truly believed it was. “You’ve been nothin’ but sweet and kind since you’ve been here, Aunt Hester. If Rachel felt shoved out, it was because she wanted to feel that way.”

His aunt didn’t look reassured. “Sometimes we women see things a little different than you men.” She sighed, snapping the wrinkles from a shirt. “She said to tell you to pick up the mare at the livery, by the way, rather than at her house.”

That news only added more fuel to Clint’s mounting rage. So, she didn’t wish to see him, did she? Not even for the few short minutes it would take for him to pick up the horse? Well, fine. That was just fine.

He raked a hand through his hair, his temper aboil and his gut tight. Damn it to hell, no woman was worth this kind of aggravation, especially when he’d been as patient as a man could be.

“I expect you’re aiming to go after her,” Aunt Hester said.

Damn straight he was going after her, Clint thought, clenching his teeth so hard something popped alongside his jaw. She was his wife, wasn’t she? She belonged here with him. In his bed—

Shit! Maybe his lovemakin’ wasn’t as great as he liked to think. Could be he hadn’t been patient enough with her that first time. Or skilled enough, for that matter. Given his limited experience with women, he’d tried his best to do right by her. But maybe his best hadn’t been good enough. Especially not after those first nights, what with Aunt Hester listening in, and all.

Clint stared off into the distance, his throat stinging so sharply with unshed tears, he felt about as old as Cody. Was that the reason Rachel’d hightailed it back to her da at the first opportunity? Because he had disappointed her? Shame scalded his insides, burning deeper and deeper until he damn near doubled over. If a man couldn’t satisfy his woman in bed, he didn’t
deserve
to keep her.

“No, I’m not aimin’ to go after her,” he said in belated answer to his aunt’s question.

“But, Nephew, that’s just plain—”

“No buts, Aunt Hester. I’m not goin’ after her. I have better things to do.”

Squaring his shoulders, he turned away and headed for the barn. He was a Rafferty, damn it. Rafferty men had pride. Rafferty men didn’t beg any woman to stay if she really wanted to leave. But, damn, it hurt.

Clint shoved open the bat-wing doors and headed into the Golden Goose. The monthly cattlemen’s meeting had lasted longer than usual, and remembering how he’d met Rachel after the last meeting a little over two months ago, he’d been so tense all evening, his throat was raw with thirst. Squinting in the smoke and lamp oil haze, he cast a look-see toward the bar, half expecting to spot Matt or one of his other brothers bending an elbow. This time he saw only Dora Faye. Judging by her scowl, she wasn’t planning to lay out any welcome.

“You got your nerve comin’ here to night, Clint Rafferty,” she said when he drew up next to her.

“How so?” he asked before signaling the barkeep to bring him a bottle. “Rye,” he amplified. “The kind you keep on hand for bankers and politicians.” He flicked Dora Faye a glance. “And two glasses.”

“One,” she corrected in a trice. “I’m particular about who I drink with.”

Clint shoved back his hat. “Meaning you ain’t interested in drinkin’ with me?”

She turned her back to the bar and rested her elbows on the polished surface. Another time Clint might have enjoyed the snowy expanse of female bosom above the gaudy lace of her cheap green dress. To night, however, he had one thing on his mind, and one thing only—pouring enough whiskey
down his throat to take away the empty feeling in his belly. Now he knew how his da must have felt after losing his ma. Hollow clear to his marrow. Not really caring if he lived or died. Rachel had been gone a month now, and every second had been an agony for him.

“Suit yourself,” he said to Dora Faye as he tipped the bottle over the glass. A second later, he slugged down the liquor. Five drinks later, some of the knots in his mood had come untangled, but not all.

“For someone claimin’ she’s not eager for my company, you sure are hangin’ fast to my shirttails,” he told the soiled dove sourly.