Sagebrush knights, p.16
Sagebrush Knights, page 16
At last, Betsy broke the silence. “Matt, why don’t you bring the luggage in, and we’ll show Gwendolyn the house?”
Her words broke him free of whatever had him trapped … probably shock, if her own reaction was anything to judge by. “Good idea. You men, get back to work. Those chores aren’t going to do themselves.” He hoisted her trunk. Her valise sat beside the gate, but when she picked it up, Betsy reached for it.
“I’ll help. Set it on my lap.” She reached for the bag, laughing. “Really, I can do it.” Plumping the carpetbag, which wasn’t all that heavy, onto her knees, she grabbed the wheels on the chair.
Gwendolyn relaxed a bit at this show of friendliness and took hold of the handle across the back of the chair. “I tell you what, you carry, and I’ll push.”
Aware of Matt’s scrutiny, she maneuvered the chair carefully up the ramp and into the house. She stopped just inside the door, stunned.
The front room was crammed with furniture, settees, chairs, tables, lamps. Rugs lay over the top of one another, and bric-a-brac crowded shelves and tables. Heavy drapes blocked out the sunshine, and from what she could tell in the low light, dust cloaked every surface.
A narrow aisle led between the furnishings, and Matt stalked ahead, through a doorway in the far wall, refusing to offer any explanation as to the condition of the parlor. “This way.”
Maneuvering the chair after him, Gwendolyn arrived at what she sensed was the hub of this home. Stark in comparison to the ornate parlor, the kitchen contained plain furnishings and an immense black stove. Dirty dishes sat on the table and counter. And a bare, glass-paned window let in light.
“We just finished lunch.” Matt’s defensive tone flicked her, but he continued. “Betsy isn’t up to much housework, and I’ve been busy. I didn’t exactly know we were going to have company.” He trod heavily on the last word, emphasizing the temporariness of the situation. Her trunk landed with a thud on the floorboards. “You’ll bunk with Betsy through here.”
Gwendolyn shot Betsy a quick glance and was rewarded by a warm smile. Someone at least was glad she was here. Sharing a room with Betsy would be like sharing with Emmeline back home.
“You’re going to love it here.” Betsy gripped the valise handle. “When Granddad said he was sending for someone, I was so happy. I’ve always wanted a sister.”
Matt stiffened. “Hold it right there, young lady. I am not getting married, so don’t get any ideas. This is a mess of Granddad’s making, and it’s going to take some time to sort out, but six weeks from now when the reverend returns, you and I will be on the porch waving good-bye to this whole problem, understand? Anyway, you heard her. She wouldn’t have me if I came dipped in diamonds.”
Gwendolyn’s ire flared. “Would you stop referring to me as a mess and a problem? It’s not my fault your grandfather didn’t explain things to you, or that he isn’t here to do so now.” She crossed the room and planted herself squarely in front of him. “If I had my druthers, I’d have been out of here so fast you wouldn’t have seen me for dust.” She snapped her fingers under his nose.
He blinked, taking a step back.
Betsy giggled. “You sound a little like Granddad standing up to Matt that way. I’m so glad you’re here. Let’s get your things put away, and don’t mind him. He hates change of any kind, and things have been changing around here rather rapidly.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
He carried her trunk into the bedroom, and Betsy followed with the valise, both of them bickering in a way so familiar to Gwendolyn, a giant aching loneliness for her sisters swept over her. Though she chafed at her sisters’ strictures, she missed them and would’ve given anything at that moment to have them here to boss her around.
“Are you coming?” Matt stuck his head through the doorway. She stopped woolgathering and entered the bedroom.
A chest of drawers stood between two iron bedsteads, though only one bed was made up. A china ewer and bowl painted with lavender flowers sat atop the dresser. A thin, limp set of curtains hung at the window. A feed store calendar adorned one wall, the only nonutilitarian object in the room. A chill went through Gwendolyn.
Matt slid the trunk toward the foot of the unmade bed. “Betsy can tell you where to find clean sheets and such, and you can unpack some things, but don’t settle in too deep. As soon as I can make arrangements, I’ll get you on your way back to where you came from.” He took the valise from Betsy’s lap and set it on top of the trunk.
Gwendolyn bit back the sharp reply that rose to her lips. He didn’t have to keep reminding her that he planned to throw her out like used dishwater. “Very well.”
“I’ll help. It’s going to be so nice to have another girl to talk to.” Betsy noticed the ribbon holding her braid was coming loose, but when she tried to tie it, her fingers stumbled. Frowning, she tried again, but the shiny ribbon slipped from her grip. “Fiddlesticks, I’m all fumble-fingered today.”
“Maybe she could leave the unpacking until later. You’re tired.” Matt stepped forward and tied the ribbon for her, his voice gruff. “You need to rest. You know the doctor said your symptoms get worse when you’re tired.”
Betsy submitted, and relief passed over Matt’s face. He patted her shoulder awkwardly, and she smiled, covering his hand with her own for an instant. Gwendolyn tugged her bottom lip as she left them alone and returned to the kitchen.
A man like Matt, capable of such tenderness toward his sister, would make someone a wonderful husband. He clearly cared about Betsy, was protective of her. Somewhere under that gruff, contrary, dragonish exterior, there might be a knight in shining armor with a chivalrous heart.
But how did one go about exposing it?
Matt lifted his sister from her chair and eased her down on top of the covers. “You take a good nap.” He brushed the red curls on her forehead. “I’ll be close by when you wake up.”
Betsy grabbed his hand. “Matt, she’s nice, isn’t she? And pretty. Did you see the way she took my hand and looked right into my eyes? Like I was a real person.”
“You are a real person, and I’ll clobber anyone who says different.” He gave a mock growl, but he knew just what she meant. How many times over the years had people’s eyes just slid right over Betsy? First the leg braces and canes, and now the wheelchair. Even the ranch hands were uncomfortable around her, not knowing what to say or do.
In that, at least, he couldn’t fault their visitor. She’d certainly spoken to Betsy with more friendliness than she’d directed his way. Not that he could blame her. He hadn’t been exactly cordial himself.
“It’s been a long time since I had a girl to talk to.” Betsy sighed, her eyes beginning to drift shut. “I really couldn’t talk to Edith. She acted as if I wasn’t even there.” Her words slowed as she fell asleep.
Maybe, for the time being, having Gwendolyn here wouldn’t be all that bad, not if she could bring a little happiness into Betsy’s life.
He shook his head and left the room, easing the door almost closed so he could still hear if she called out. One glance into the crowded parlor brought him back to reality. No way was he going to be made a fool of. Women like Edith and Gwendolyn were only after one thing by marrying a man they didn’t even know, and if that little miss thought she was going to sink her claws into him the way Edith had done to his father, she had another think coming.
When he returned to the kitchen, he stopped in the doorway. Gwendolyn stood at the dishpan, up to her elbows in soapy water.
“What are you doing?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Is that rhetorical, or have you never seen anyone wash dishes before?”
Leaning against the doorframe, he crossed his arms. “Got a little vinegar to you, don’t you? And quite a vocabulary. You don’t look old enough to have been a schoolteacher.” He didn’t know why he felt compelled to taunt her, unless it was to show her he wasn’t fooled by her pretty ways and willingness to help out. Edith had been a new broom that swept clean, too. Before the rot set in.
“A schoolmaster’s daughter.” Cups sloshed through the soap and into the rinse water.
“And what does he think of you moving out here to marry an old man?”
“Like your grandfather, my father is dead, and fairly recently, too. That’s why I, along with my sisters, was forced to advertise for a husband. We were being evicted from our home in Massachusetts at the boarding school where my father taught. I didn’t know Zebulon Parker was a grandfather. I didn’t know anything about him except that he lived in Wyoming Territory and was—I thought—looking for a wife. There wasn’t time to learn anything else about him. We had no other options open to us. His telegram and the letters from the other three men were godsends, or so we thought.”
He didn’t miss the wry twist to her voice, but he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. He wasn’t anyone’s godsend, thank you very much, nor did he want to be. “You didn’t ask any questions or try to find out anything about the man you thought you were going to marry? No exchange of photographs, no letters. Not even an inquiry into his financial situation? You might’ve been jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.” Nobody would be that naive. Surely she’d probed Granddad’s prospects before agreeing to marry him.
“My correspondence with your grandfather was by telegram only, and long telegrams cost more than I had to spend. I assumed that if he had the money to pay for my train fare, he couldn’t be on his beam ends, and if he was a friend to the other gentlemen who wrote to my sisters, he must be all right. All we asked was that the gentlemen be God-fearing and live close together. Reverend Cummings assured us of the God-fearing part, though we’re coming to realize a bit too late that our interpretation of close together doesn’t exactly match those of the ranchers out here.”
He marveled that she didn’t even try to hide her penniless state. Well, she wasn’t going to get her hands on any Parker money, no matter what Granddad might’ve promised her. He glanced over his shoulder toward Betsy’s bedroom door. His sister had taken an immediate shine to Gwendolyn, something she didn’t normally do. Of course, she didn’t have much of a chance to meet folks out here.
“I appreciate the way you’ve treated Betsy, but I’ve cautioned her, and I’ll caution you again. You’re not staying. Don’t encourage any of her fancies. She’s got a head full of romantic notions, and I don’t want to see her get hurt.”
Her hands stilled, and her shoulders drooped. Guilt at his harshness plucked his conscience. She had to be boneweary, coming all the way from Massachusetts to Sagebrush, bumping across the prairie in Cummings’s wagon since before daybreak, and then landing in the middle of the Parker woes where all her plans had burned to cinders.
Before he did something stupid like apologize for telling the truth, he wheeled and headed up the narrow stairway to the top floor. He braced himself before the door to the bedroom across the hall from his. This room, like the parlor, went unused, tainted by the memory of Edith. He thrust those thoughts aside and entered. Her stamp was everywhere in the ornate furnishings. A four-poster bed with velvet drapes, dressing table, fly-spotted and dusty mirror, rugs—he should’ve tossed out the lot when Edith scarpered.
Ignoring the oppressive, cloying feel of the room, he crossed the carpet and pulled open the wardrobe. A set of plain sheets lay on the top shelf, but he pushed them aside and withdrew the set of bed linens farther back. Fine, expensive, snowy material with fancy stitching on the pillow slips. He might not’ve given her the warmest of welcomes, and he might have no intentions of letting her stay, but the Parkers could show a bit of hospitality to the stranger in their midst.
He returned to the kitchen where she had finished washing the dishes and now leaned over the table, wiping it down. The nape of her neck caught his eye, vulnerable, soft, with wisps of golden hair teasing it. He swallowed. She’d removed her jacket, and to his way of thinking, her blouse fit her just fine. She straightened, and he wrenched his gaze away, chagrined to be caught staring.
“You can make up your bed with these.” He held out the bundle of bedclothes. “I’d best go see about fixing that threshold.” Thrusting the sheets at her, he stalked out the back door toward the barn. What on earth had come over him? He was acting as if he’d never seen a pretty girl before.
Chapter 3
So legend has it that’s why the Knights of the Round Table wear green sashes, in honor of Sir Gawain’s adventure with the Green Knight.” Gwendolyn finished buttoning up Betsy’s shoes for her and pushed herself up from the kitchen floor. Betsy insisted on doing as much as possible for herself, but this morning the buttonhook had refused to cooperate.
“That’s the most wonderful story. How do you know all these tales?” Betsy brushed her hair, slowly separating it into three hanks to braid.
“I’ve heard them for as long as I can remember. Tales of Guinevere, Arthur, Lancelot, St. George. Father was a medieval scholar and professor, and my sisters and I just mopped it up.” She quickly made Betsy’s bed and straightened up the room for the day. “I used to dream of a knight coming to my rescue, saving me from the dragons and declaring upon his sacred honor his everlasting devotion to me.” She laced her fingers under her chin and batted her eyes.
Betsy snickered. “Can you imagine Matt clanking around the ranch in a suit of armor?”
Gwendolyn grimaced and shook her head. She affected a gruff, deep voice, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at the window. “Hark, fair maiden, hast thou not been forbidden to settle thyself in at this castle? What is this I espy? Draperies?”
More laughter from Betsy as they relived the moment yesterday morning when Matt had caught them hemming pretty yellow fabric to adorn the kitchen panes. The fuss he’d kicked up over something so innocuous had baffled both the girls, but Betsy had declared the whole enterprise her idea, and he’d collapsed his protests like a stepped-on bellows.
“What is going on in here?” Matt eased the half-open door aside.
Gwendolyn jerked around, lost her balance, and grabbed for a chair back to steady herself. How much had he heard? She fought to keep her color down.
Betsy covered her mouth, but helpless giggles escaped. Matt’s cheeks creased in a rare smile, and he laughed. The rich, mellow sound did strange things to Gwendolyn’s insides, and she forced herself upright, smoothing her skirts and hair. He tugged on Betsy’s newly-fashioned braid. “It feels good to hear you laugh again, Bets. What’s so funny?”
“Gwendolyn.” Betsy’s shoulders quivered, light dancing in her brown eyes.
“We were just talking.” Gwendolyn hustled to the stove, chagrined to be caught giggling like a schoolgirl. “I’ll have breakfast ready in two shakes.”
A breeze fluttered the curtains at the kitchen window, but she hid her grin. He really had been grumpy about them. But what harm could it do? Aside from that chock a block full parlor, the other rooms in the house were rather stark and uninviting. Surely a few womanly touches wouldn’t hurt anything.
Matt washed up and sat down at the head of the table. Gwendolyn turned the bacon and cracked a couple more eggs into the skillet. The warm, inviting smell of biscuits curled through the room when she opened the oven door. Neither Matt nor Betsy had complained that she had taken over the meals, and Betsy tried to help as much as she could.
“Ah, perfect.” She whipped the biscuits onto a platter and set them on the table then slid the eggs and bacon onto plates before placing them in front of Matt and his sister. She took her own chair and bowed her head.
Matt offered his hands to each of them and bowed his head. A flutter started just under Gwendolyn’s heart, the same way it did every time they happened to touch, and she chided herself to keep her mind on the blessing.
His simple prayer of thanks warmed her as it always did. There was something so straightforward about Matt. Hard-headed, but straightforward. He hadn’t budged on the idea of her staying, but at least he no longer looked at her as if she might steal his wallet.
As he tucked into his food, she observed him from under her lashes. Square jaw, straight nose, and that thick, slightly wavy reddish hair that just begged her to touch it. His muscles moved under his worn, blue shirt when he reached for the jar of honey, and a light dusting of ruddy hairs sprinkled his forearms and the backs of his strong hands.
His lips, which could be hard and uncompromising one moment and soft and smiling the next, drew her attention. Then there were his eyes. The same shape as Betsy’s. Brilliant blue and slanted a bit at the corners, often filled with care or concern when he looked at his sister and consternation or confusion when he looked at her.
What would it be like to have him look at her with tenderness, or even just friendliness?
“Do I have dirt on my face?” He sat back and rested his knife and fork on the edge of his plate.
She blinked and looked away. “Um, no. I’m sorry. My thoughts were wandering.” And into a region she should keep them well away from. “What are your plans for the day?” She helped herself to another biscuit, though she hadn’t finished the first—anything to cover up being caught staring like an infatuated twit.
“I thought I’d slap another coat of paint on that fence today.” He resumed his breakfast.
Betsy, who had been quietly pushing her food around on her plate, frowned. “Isn’t it about time for the spring roundup? Shouldn’t you be out on a horse somewhere?”
He shrugged. “The boys are handling it. They rode out a couple of days ago.”
Her brow scrunched farther. “This is because of me, isn’t it? You’re staying here because you’re afraid to leave me now that I’m stuck in this chair and Granddad isn’t here. You should’ve gone with the men. You always go on the roundup.” Tears filled Betsy’s eyes, a surprise to Gwendolyn, for she had a feeling Betsy fought hard to always be cheerful and staunch. “I don’t want to be a burden to you, Matt. You have a ranch to run, and you can’t do it from inside this house.”
