Читать книгу His Brother's Bride - Judith Bowen - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

Glory, Alberta

March

THE LAYOUT OF THE Lazy SB, home of Winslow Herefords, was a little unusual. You approached the ranch by following a long grade that led from the flat of the prairies, smack against the sky, to the broad valley of the Horsethief River.

Once at the end of the short graveled lane that led from the secondary highway, you came upon a fairly new, white-sided prefab building of modest size, perhaps twelve hundred square feet. That was where Jesse Winslow lived. To the south, a little up the hill from the river, was a trailer, an older model measuring less than thirty feet. That was where the Winslows’ uncle, Brandis McAffrey, had lived until he died three years before at the age of eighty-four, dividing his share of the ranch between his two nephews. The trailer had been empty since then.

A little higher again, on a gentle knoll, was the old Winslow family home. It was built of clapboard, somewhat weathered now, and stood two stories, square and proud, on the knoll overlooking the ranch corrals and barns and the Horsethief River in the middle distance. A fancy-cut veranda, the style of a previous time, wrapped itself around the house, and old-fashioned deep pink roses, long gone wild, small of bloom and long of thorn, climbed up to the roof on two sides. That was where Noah Winslow lived.

The brothers got along fine; they just preferred to live separately. The arrangement suited them. There’d been a third brother, Casey, but he’d died at the age of twelve of a ruptured appendix. Doc Lake had seen to him when Jake Winslow had rushed him to town, after pooh-poohing the severity of the boy’s “bellyache,” but it was too late. Casey had died four days later of the massive infection that had set in, and the loss of her middle son had hastened Macy Winslow’s decline. She’d suffered for many years from a sort of mysterious palsy that incapacitated her. No one knew exactly what it was, but one day, about two months after Casey’s death, Macy had gone down for a nap in the afternoon of a bright spring day and had never woken up.

The neighbors had talked. It was a small community, Glory and the surrounding farm and ranch district. People had wondered at the sudden death of a woman in midlife who only trembled a bit, enough that she couldn’t hold a teacup steady. There were whispers of suicide—not just because of Macy’s losing a son like that but having to live with a man like Jake Winslow. A hard man. Some said a violent an.

But the doctor’s certificate had read “unknown natural causes” and that was good enough, as far as the remaining Winslows were concerned. She’d been buried in the churchyard up on the prairie, a church that only she of all the Winslows had ever attended. There was singing at the grave site and purple martins looped overhead as Macy McAffrey Winslow was lowered into the rich brown prairie soil. It was the only time, outside of his wedding, that Jake Winslow had ever been seen at church. Six months later, he’d sold his interest in the ranch to his brother-in-law, Brandis McAffrey, Macy’s half brother, and had disappeared. No one knew if he was dead or alive.

Since then Noah and Jesse and their Uncle Brandis-until his death-had been running the Lazy SB. Neither Noah nor Jesse ever talked about the disappearance of their father. Not many people in the area believed he was missed, even by his two boys.

Neither had married. Nor had Uncle Brandis ever married. Noah was close to his mid-thirties and Jesse was twenty-seven. If Casey had lived, he’d be thirty-one.

SPRING HAD COMB early to the northern range this year. By late March, the snow had cleared or blown away and most of the newborn calves had a pleasant and peaceful introduction to the world on the Lazy SB. No blizzards. No sudden March northwesters bringing freezing rain. No deep winter snow on the ground to weary the lumbering mothers. Noah and Jesse had ridden the range all month, watching for cows with problems. There’d been a few, but this year they’d lost fewer calves than ever before. Noah was pleased. A dead calf was money lost on a working ranch. Not just the loss of what the calf would have brought, as a feeder or a finished steer, but money lost in feeding the mother for a year without a calf to show for it. Ranch economics were tough and tight.

By the third week in March, Noah figured most of the calving was done. The few cows that hadn’t given birth yet were down in the lower field, close to the ranch so that either he or Jesse or Carl Divine, their foreman, could go out and check on them occasionally.

Other ranching and farming tasks were approaching. Seed to get in from Regina for the hay crops he was experimenting with this year. Bulls to examine for health problems and get into condition before turning them out with the cows in July. Roundup to organize, maybe mid-May this year, depending on the weather. Branding to follow, along with inoculating, castrating, dehorning, worming and all the other hundred and one jobs a rancher had to keep up with to look after his cattle properly.

The weather so far was just about perfect. You couldn’t ask for a finer spring day. As Noah left Carl in the barn checking veterinary supplies and walked up to the house to get some lunch, he noticed his brother turning into the yard. Jesse didn’t stop at his own bungalow, but continued on up Noah’s driveway.

Noah waved briefly, then walked into the house to start the coffee machine, which he usually got ready before he left the house in the morning. He opened the refrigerator. Bologna or ham or leftover roast beef? He pulled out the sliced ham and began to gather the makings of the rest of his sandwich. Maybe make extra, in case Jesse hadn’t eaten.

Lettuce, pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, cheese slices, a few chunks of raw onion, a tomato slice or two, more pickles—the entire creation topped with a couple of peperoncini peppers and a dab of horseradish. Now that was a sandwich, Noah thought with satisfaction.

Jesse came in without knocking and sat heavily at the kitchen table.

Noah glanced at his brother. “You eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Sandwich? Carl’s down at the barn.”

“Sure.” Jesse sighed and Noah spared him another glance before topping the three sandwiches he’d made with a thick slice of Glory Bakery bread. He leaned down on each sandwich gently, just enough to make it all stick together and not topple off before he could wrap one up for Carl and take the other two to the table for him and Jesse. He’d planned to eat down at the barn with his foreman, but now that Jesse was here, he might as well stay up at the house and eat with him.

He set the plate on the table, pushing aside the week’s accumulation of magazines and newspapers. His brother hadn’t even taken off his hat, which was unusual. He hadn’t said another word, either. Noah walked back to the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of cans of beer. He popped the tab on his as he returned to the table.

“Beer?”

“I could use one,” Jesse said, reaching for his can and popping the tab, too. “Thanks.” He took a long draft and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. Noah noticed a letter sticking out of the pocket of his brother’s shirt. The letter had been opened.

The two men ate their sandwiches in silence for five minutes. Then Noah decided to cut to the chase. “I thought you weren’t coming home from town until later this afternoon. That barbed wire the coop ordered come in early?”

He knew Jesse didn’t have the barbed wire, the pickup hadn’t ridden as though it had a load in the back. Still, no way was he coming straight out and asking—that wasn’t how the men in his world did things. Not men who loved cowboying and the independent life above all, men like him and Jesse. A man was generally his own boss, whether he worked for wages or not. A man worth his grub and his paycheck knew what needed doing without being told.

“Nope.” Jesse drained his beer. “Didn’t get it yet. I, ah, I had some news in town.”

Noah regarded him for a second or two. “News?” He bit into his sandwich.

“Got a letter today.” Jesse patted his chest pocket and frowned.

“Girlfriend?”

“This is no joke, Noah.” Jesse swore softly under his breath. “No joke at all.”

“Well, you’d better tell me then. Save me guessing. I got work to do this afternoon.”

His brother heaved another sigh and stood up to retrieve the pickle jar from the fridge. “You recall that exhibition I went to last fall in Minnesota? Me ‘n’ Barney?” he asked as he stabbed into the jar with a fork.

“Sure do. Got two blue ribbons for those young bulls sired by Mack. Grand champ and reserve.” Mack was the pet name Noah had for Macintosh Millicent Merrigoldas Blazes, the top bull on the ranch, the five-year-old Noah would have mortgaged his soul to acquire. He hadn’t had to, luckily, and Mack had turned out even better than he’d dreamed. Blood will out, old Brandis used to say. Blood and breeding.

“Well, I met a woman down there.” Jesse screwed the lid back on the pickle jar and pushed it to the center of the table.

Noah stared at his brother. He looked unhappy. This wasn’t like Jesse. Was he in love? Women were nothing new to him; he had women falling all over him wherever he went.

“And?” Noah took another bite of his sandwich and chased the heat from the peppers with the last of his beer.

Jesse patted his pocket again. “She wrote. Told me, uh—jeez, Noah, I don’t know how to put this,” Jesse said in a rush. His eyes were hangdog. This was the younger brother Noah had pulled out of quite a few jams over the years. He knew the look well.

“Hell, Jess. How bad could it be? You catch something you weren’t figuring on catching? You left her with something she wasn’t figuring on getting left with-”

“Yeah. She’s having a baby. Mine—”

“What?”

“She’s having a kid. She don’t want nothing from me. Just figured I should know, that’s all.”

“What do you mean, she doesn’t want anything from you?” He surprised himself with the intensity of his feelings. This was bound to happen. Jesse was a womanizer. Noah was amazed it hadn’t happened long ago. Maybe it had. “What did she write for if she didn’t want anything?”

“You’re a hard son of a bitch, Noah.” Jesse stood up. “Some folk are decent, you know.” He glared at his brother. “Some people got feelings. Some folk figure there’s a right and a wrong way to do things.”

For a minute Noah thought Jesse was going to leave. But he didn’t. He stood at the kitchen window for a few seconds, staring out over the rivet valley, then sat down again.

“I’ve thought it over. I’m going to write back and see if she wants to get married.”

Noah didn’t say a thing. He just studied his younger brother. Then-he wasn’t sure why he said it—“Who would she marry?”

“Me, you bastard. Me!” Jesse glared at him. “I know how to do right by a woman. You’re not the only Winslow knows about honor, damn it”

Ha. Honor. What the hell was Jesse talking about? Honor was one thing the Winslows weren’t big on, none of ’em. Practical, that was what the Winslows were. Some might say too practical. Noah walked to the fridge and grabbed two more beers. This called for a little celebration.

“What’s her name?”

“Abby. Abby Steen.”

“Married? Separated? Divorced?” Noah plunked the beer in front of his brother and stood there, popping the tab on his own.

Jesse glared again and Noah saw him bite back a curse. “Widow.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know. Twenty-two, twenty-three, maybe.” Jesse sounded irritable. He grabbed the second beer. “Looks pretty young.”

“When’s the happy day?”

“The wedding, you mean?”

“Well, I don’t mean the kid. I can figure that out, seeing you were in Minnesota for a week in November. You never heard of rubbers?” he added angrily. “What in hell happened?”

Jesse tossed his hat onto the chair beside him and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair.

“Wedding?” Jesse said, answering his first question. “As soon as she can come up here, I guess. That’s if she’ll marry me—”

“Oh, she’ll marry you, all right—”

“What happened? Hell!” Jesse disregarded his interruption and ran his hand through his hair again, and when he spoke he addressed the floor in front of him. None too clean, Noah noted absently. Still, he’d seen it worse.

“I met her in a bar—now, don’t you say nothing! I wasn’t drinking, not that much anyway. Couple beers. I noticed her sitting by herself. She had a friend with her, turned out the friend had plans to go off with somebody else. So I drove her home.”

“So you drove her home, uh-huh,” Noah muttered.

“Yeah. When we got there, I asked her if she needed a hand, if she had some kind of trouble, since the friend had mentioned it. I figured it might be to do with her stock, and she just—hell, she just cracked up on me. Started bawling. Told me her husband had been killed not that long ago, and the baby she’d been expectin’ had been born dead—”

“And you bought all that.”

“Of course I bought it! It was the truth, damn it. Anybody could see that. I told her I’d make her some coffee and I did. We had a cup or two, then—well, then we ended up in bed. It was just, you know—one of those things.”

Noah nodded. For guys like Jesse, sure, it was one of those things. Noah couldn’t quite imagine himself in that kind of situation.

“We, uh, we spent the rest of the weekend together. The nights anyway. She was lonely. So was I, I guess. I sure in hell didn’t think this would happen. We used birth control—”

“Mostly.”

“Yeah, mostly,” Jesse shot back. “Accidents happen.”

“To guys like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Huh? Guys like me? Not perfect guys like you, eh?” Jesse leaped to his feet and for a second or two, Noah thought he was going to take a poke at him. That’d be great, a couple of Winslows duking it out over a woman. Wouldn’t be the first time, either.

“Settle down, Jesse,” Noah said wearily. He frowned. He couldn’t waste much more time on this. He had to go down and give Carl a hand and phone in the order to the vet’s. What was done was done. “Okay, so she can come up here, you can get the papers in order, whatever. What about her being American?”

“I already checked in town. She can come up to marry me. Get her papers that way.”

“I suppose she could stay in Brandis’s trailer.”

“Why the trailer? She could stay with me.”

“Do I have to spell it out, Jesse? Neighbors are going to talk as it is, her showing up like this out of nowhere. Don’t give them any more ammo than they’re already going to have once that kid comes. People can count backward, y’know.”

Jesse reached for his hat and jammed it on. He looked like hell. This had been a shock to him, no question. There went his carefree bachelor days, following his happy hormones wherever they led. Noah could see he hadn’t had time to take it all in yet. Marriage, a wife, a kid on the way...

“Listen, buddy.” Noah clapped his brother on the shoulder as he accompanied him to the door. “Things could be worse. Huh?”

Jesse nodded sheepishly. “Guess so.”

“Time you settled down, anyway. One of us.” Noah smiled. “Keep the Winslows going, huh?”

Jesse grinned. “Yeah, sure.”

“Better you than me, right?”

Jesse shrugged. He didn’t say anything.

“She a cowgirl? Know one end of a horse from the other?”

“Farm family. Teacher by trade.”

“Teacher? That’s good. What kind of farming? Sugar beets?” Noah wasn’t serious. He was trying for a lighter note with his brother, although it was an effort.

“Dairy. Jerseys or Guernseys or some damn thing.”

“That’s good. Cows is cows, I guess, even if they ain’t whitefaces, right?”

The two brothers shared a laugh. It was an old family joke that had originated with Brandis. Jesse stepped out the door and the screen slapped shut behind him.

“Jess?” His brother turned to meet Noah’s gaze. “You can count on me. You know that.”

“I know that, man. I appreciate it.” Jesse’s voice was gruff, reflecting the emotion behind his words. Jesse had always leaned on his big brother. It was natural that he’d come to him today. For advice, for comfort.

“Okay.”

Noah watched Jesse walk back to his pickup and open the door. “Hey!” he called out.

His brother paused, one foot on the running board. “Yeah?”

“She win anything at the fair?”

“Hell if I know,” Jesse said with a wide grin. “I never asked.” He climbed in and slammed the door.

You wouldn’t, Noah thought, watching him back the truck up to the Y in the road. Still, Jesse was a decent man. Solid, good instincts. Hard worker. Fairly steady. Spent too much money, in Noah’s opinion, and there’d been a time he drank too much. That was past. Definitely a good idea for him to settle down. Maybe this widow, coming to Glory with a family already started, was the woman to do it.

No question, things could be worse.

ABBY HUNG HER HEAD over the toilet bowl and wearily mopped her face with a cool, wrung-out washcloth. The doctor had said he suspected twins. She prayed he was wrong, but they ran in the family. She hadn’t been sick at all with her first pregnancy and now this—nearly every morning for the past month she’d gotten up sick.

She’d have to tell her parents soon. She wasn’t afraid to; after all, she was a grown woman, a widow, who’d suffered more in her twenty-eight years than any woman should be asked to suffer. But they’d be upset. And terribly disappointed. And they’d want to know if she was going to get married again, to the father of the baby. And they’d worry about the neighbors talking. Which they’d definitely do in a small town like Wicoigon.

She was living with her parents and working part-time for her father and part-time as a substitute teacher since the new term had started after Christmas. She’d grown to dread the call in the morning telling her that her services were required in the classroom that day. She taught elementary, grade three mostly. She couldn’t forget that her own baby would have been a year old now. Being surrounded by children all day long was like walking on cut glass, Abby had discovered. The constant reminders of the child she’d lost, plus the extra stresses of her pregnancy, physical and emotional, were really getting her down.

It didn’t help that she’d begun to find the smell of cows and barns nauseating. Thank heavens she’d convinced her father to let her do his books in preparation for year-end, so she was in his office in the house most of the time. This nausea would pass, and when it did, she’d be finished the accounts and ready to go back and help him with the cattle.

She’d confided in only one person so far, her sister, Meg. Meg had been horrified. Still was. Meg was fourteen years older than Abby, and they’d been more like aunt and niece than sisters. Meg wanted to know right away who the father was, and when Abby told her she’d had a brief liaison with a stranger from Canada during the Carlisle fair, her sister’s lovely face had grown stiff with disapproval. Like their parents, Meg was a regular churchgoer. Not that there was anything wrong with that—Abby often wished her own faith would come easier to her—but she really didn’t think that her parents or Meg ever thought much beyond the surface.

Shouldn’t her sister be thrilled for her, knowing how little joy she had in her life? Knowing that her only child, Frank’s baby, had been snatched from her, born dead? Didn’t she realize that Abby welcomed this new life growing inside her womb—that this was heaven’s gift to her for all her suffering?

She’d never do anything to jeopardize that life. That was why she’d written to Jesse Winslow. She wanted nothing from him, but she believed he had a right to know. A child had a right to a father and a father had a right to his child. She was going to have this baby and raise it with all the love she had in her heart, and her child was not going to be fatherless. If Jesse was at all inclined, he could see their child whenever he wanted. If he wasn’t, well, so be it. She had given him the choice.

And then she’d received the letter from him, asking her to come to Glory and marry him. That was a shocker. They didn’t really know each other. He seemed to be a very nice man. Quiet, gentle. She’d found him attractive, yes, for a few days—but could she live with the man? Marry him?

Hardly.

She’d received the letter two weeks ago. Jesse had said he’d wait until he heard from her, as he didn’t know her circumstances and he hadn’t wanted to call her right out of the blue. But he’d give her some time to think it over. He hoped she’d agree. If so, he’d send her fare right away, and they could get married as soon as she wanted.

Well, she didn’t need the fare. Although it was kind of him to offer. She had a few savings. She’d need to work to support her baby and the likeliest prospect was to look for a job teaching full-time. But who was going to hire a pregnant teacher with no seniority? Or a teacher with a brand-new infant—or infants—which would be the case since her due date was August? Even if, according to the law, it wasn’t supposed to matter. And then there was the fascinating particular of the new teacher with a brand-new baby but no husband. How would that go over with the hiring committee?

And did she want someone else to raise her child? A caregiver? Put the baby straight into day care? What if the doctor’s suspicions were right and she was carrying twins?

Abby shuddered at the prospect of the difficulties ahead of her. If her baby had survived, she’d planned to live off Frank’s insurance settlement for the first year or two. Day care was inevitable eventually, no matter how much she’d have preferred to be home raising her own child, as she would have done if Frank had lived.

“Yoo-hoo!” It was her mother, downstairs.

“Yes?” Abby called through the closed door. That was another thing; there was so little privacy. It wasn’t her parents’ fault, but she couldn’t help thinking they’d resented losing their own space when their younger daughter had moved back in to save money.

“Breakfast’s on! Time’s a-wastin’ Abigail!”

Time’s a-wasting. Yes, wasn’t it? Abby thought wearily. She was more than four months gone already. The morning sickness should have passed. She’d be showing soon. She stood, wiped her forehead again, then took several deep breaths. She examined her face in the spotty bathroom mirror over the sink. Long blond hair, average features. Blue eyes. A pleasant smile, people said. Looked like a lot of the Swedish, Dutch, German, Norwegian folks in the district. She looked better when she was pregnant. no matter what she felt. People commented on that She remembered before, with the baby she always called Mary Frannie in her heart, that she’d felt so happy being pregnant with Frank’s child, happy despite the grief of losing Frank. As though having a baby was something she’d always wanted. Although she hadn’t really. She’d never thought much about it. It had just happened.

Now, this time, it had just happened again. She must be fecund as a darn bunny rabbit, she thought wryly.

Time’s a-wasting. Abby made her way slowly down the stairs.

“—and I told Belle she’d have to step in and do something. Send that girl packing. It’s not right to—oh, there you are!” Her mother smiled as she spotted Abby and waved her spatula in greeting. She was busy turning pancakes at the kitchen stove. Her father sat hunched in his chair, as always, listening to the early-morning stock prices on the country station the radio on top of the fridge was tuned to—had been tuned to for thirty years, as far as Abby knew.

“I was just telling your father about the Stovik girl, Abby. Sandra. She’s got herself in the family way and her mother’s just sick about it. I don’t suppose Belle’s aware how much people’ve already been talking. Everybody knows Sandra’s been the town bike for years. There’s probably not a fit man outside of my Arnie here hasn’t taken a ride—”

“Mother!

“It’s true. She’s a tramp, Abby. T-R-A-M-P. Tramp. And now she’s caught in her own sinning ways. Serves her right. She’s expecting, and it’s just going to kill Gladys Volstadt when she finds out her first great-grandchild will be a bastard. Well, how else can you put it? Gladys planned to give Sandra the family silver, I know that for a fact, but a common slut won’t be getting the Volstadt silver, that’s for sure. Gladys wouldn’t stand for it.” Abby’s mother turned the pancakes violently.

“She’ll just have to take her medicine, maybe even get rid of it, although that’s piling sin on sin. Didn’t I always tell Belle she had to watch that one, that Sandra, didn’t I—”

Abby stood, horrified, as she listened to her mother’s litany of condemnation. Suddenly she felt weak. Woozy. She grabbed the doorframe to support herself momentarily—

“Abigail, dear! Something wrong?” Her mother’s voice was sharp. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m just fine.” Abby walked carefully into the kitchen and sank down on a kitchen chair.

“I—uh, Mom? Dad?”

“Huh?” Her father looked up, annoyed, from the careful paring of his thumbnail with his jackknife as he listened to the stock prices on the radio. “What’s that, Ab?”

“What is it, Abigail, for heaven’s sake—”

“I have something I’d like to tell you both. I’ll be leaving. I’ve decided to get married again.”