Читать книгу The Courtship Of Izzy Mccree - Ruth Langan, Ruth Ryan Langan - Страница 8

“Oh, my. Where to begin.”

Izzy rolled up her sleeves and set to work. While she waited for the water to heat over the fire, she located a cache of lye soap. She was surprised at such a find, since the cabin smelled as though it hadn’t seen disinfectant in a year. She stacked the dishes alongside the basin, then scrubbed the kitchen table and chairs until the rough wood gleamed. While she worked, strands of her hair slipped from the knot atop her head and began to fall in sticky tendrils around her face. She swiped at them with damp hands before resuming her work.

When the water was hot enough, she tackled the dishes. As she washed and dried the first plate, she held it up to the firelight. It was a pretty thing, pale and translucent, with one perfect pink rosebud on the rim. She washed a cup and held it up admiringly. It bore the same small rosebud design. As she continued washing, she thought how lovely that here in this rough wilderness, so far from civilization, she had discovered a complete set of matched china. In her life she’d never seen such a thing before. To Izzy, it was an amazing treasure.

Matthew’s wife must have been a lovely lady. As lovely as her china. No wonder he got so angry at his son. How could anyone be expected to take the place of such a fine woman?

Matthew. He wasn’t at all what she’d been anticipating. Well, maybe somewhat. He did look like a rough mountain man. The kind of man who would settle in a primitive place, determined to tame it. But from his letter she had expected him to have a tender side. A kind nature. Instead he had already shown himself to be a harsh, unyielding man. One who would order his son to the barn for a thrashing.

Izzy shuddered. Poor Aaron. Her heart went out to him. She knew only too well what he would have to endure. And now that she knew that he had been the author of the letter, she felt even more sympathy. It was Aaron who had been the kind, sweet, gentle soul revealed in his words. He had probably inherited that sweet nature from his mother.

She opened a cupboard and carefully stored the precious dishes away, then tackled the pots and pans and utensils, crusted with burned food. These required a great deal more effort, and she immersed them in boiling water and scrubbed until her knuckles were bloody. But at least, for the moment, she had managed to put aside her troubles.

In the barn Matt crouched beside the lantern, sifting through the packet of mail. Only one held any interest for him. The familiar handwriting had the blood throbbing at his temples as he tore open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. He read it quickly, absorbing first shock, then pain, and then slow, simmering fury. Then, like a man possessed, he read it again, and yet again, until every single word was committed to memory. By the time he’d read it more than a dozen times, he felt the anger beginning to drain away. In its place was a sort of numb acceptance.

He wondered if old Webster Sutton had felt this way when he’d lost his hand.

Like Webster, a vital part of him had been torn away, and he’d mourned and suffered and tried to function without it. But he had tempted himself, again and again, with the idea that somehow that vital part would grow back. Now, finally, he had to face the fact that it was lost to him forever. He would never get that part of his life back.

He should be relieved. He should welcome the numbness, after the pain he’d suffered. But for a few minutes more, he actually found himself wishing he could embrace the pain. Maybe it would be better than what he was feeling now.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the rough, cold wood of the stall. What was he feeling? He couldn’t put a name to it. But maybe the closest thing would be…relief.

Impossible. He couldn’t be relieved by such cruel news. Still…that was exactly what he was experiencing. It was finally, irrevocably over. No more sleepless nights, wondering, waiting. Now, like it or not, he knew. And though the things he knew were painful, at least, hopefully, he could begin to heal. He could find a way to get on with his life.

At last he returned the letter to the envelope and shoved it into his pocket.

His glance fell on another envelope and he opened it more slowly. The handwriting was neat, precise, almost childlike. The words were simple but meaningful. He read this letter with a sort of detached fascination.

Dear Matthew,

Your words touched me deeply. I can already see your sweet, motherless children and your lovely, sprawling ranch snuggled in the bosom of the Sierra Nevada. I realize we will be strangers to each other, and that we will have much to learn. But I cannot resist the lure of your family. As soon as I can put my affairs in order, I will begin the journey to our new life together.

Sincerely,

Isabella McCree

The barn door was abruptly yanked open.

“All right, Pa. The herd’s fine.”

A gust of cold air fluttered the paper in Matt’s hand.

Aaron closed the door and turned to face his father. “You can whale away on me if you’d like. I guess I deserve it.”

Matt took his time folding the letter and lifting the lantern to a post above the stall. Then he studied his son, whose eyes were downcast. At nearly fifteen, Aaron was more man than boy. The years of hard ranch chores had layered muscle on his six-foot frame. If Aaron wanted, Matt knew, he could give his father a hell of a fight. But that thought wouldn’t even occur to Aaron. As firstborn, the boy was diligent, disciplined and devoted, not only to his father but to his younger brothers and sister, as well. In fact, he had always been like their second father. And mother.

“I’m not going to hit you, Aaron.” The thought was absurd. It had been years since he’d even had to reprimand this boy. “But tell me, son. What in the world made you write that letter?”

Aaron shrugged. “It was Christmastime. The younger ones were missing Ma. I got to thinking if they could get a new ma, maybe things wouldn’t seem so…bad around here.”

Matt absorbed the pain. Would it ever end? Would he ever be able to hear them speak of her without feeling this terrible emptiness?

“Why Pennsylvania?”

“I read about it in that paper you brought from Sutton’s Station. It said the minister of the First Pennsylvania Congregation led a prayer for the soldiers heading to California. So I just wrote the letter, and the next time we went to town I left it with Boone.”

“You couldn’t bring yourself to tell me?”

Aaron looked away. “No, sir.”

“I know I’ve been pretty tough to live with. I guess…” Matt hesitated, then plunged into uncharted territory. “I guess we haven’t talked much about men and women.”

Aaron flushed clear to the tips of his ears. “I’ve seen the farm animals. I know enough.”

“Then you ought to know that men and women like to know each other, and feel some…sweetening toward each other, before they get married.”

“Sweetening?”

“Something that’ll attract them, like bees to honey.”

“I know that.” The boy’s Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed hard. “But how’re you ever going to meet a lady out here and feel any…sweetening?”

It was his father’s turn to flush. “So you thought the solution would be to send for a stranger?”

“Pa, do you remember the time the mother duck got killed by a coyote? We gave the ducklings to one of our hens, and she raised them like her own.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying any mother’s better than none?”

“I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

“Then I’ll remind you what a poor substitute that hen was. She stood squawking on the banks of the river every time those ducklings started swimming. And when they joined a flock of geese and flew off in the fall, she took to her nest in mourning.”

The boy nodded. “But you have to admit, she took good care of those babies until they could take care of themselves, Pa.”

Matt nodded reluctantly. “Yes, she did.”

“They’d have died without her mothering.”

The two fell silent for long minutes. Finally Matt cleared his throat. “We’re not talking about ducks and chicks now, Aaron.”

“No, sir. But Miss McCree seems nice enough.”

“I guess she is. But she’s a city woman. What does she know about surviving a winter in the wilderness?”

Aaron shrugged again. “Not much, I’d wager. But we’d be here to help her.”

When his father said nothing more, he looked up, studying him carefully. For the first time he felt a flicker of hope. “You thinking of asking her to stay?”

“I might be.” Matt’s eyes were hidden in shadow. But the lingering pain was still in his voice. “After all, I was outvoted. And there’s the money. It’s going to cost more than I have to send her home. It doesn’t seem fair to ask her to work in town until she’s saved enough.” At least those were the arguments he was willing to admit to. But the truth was, that damnable letter had changed everything. It wasn’t that he wanted a wife, he told himself. But Aaron was right. They needed a woman around the place. And Del needed a mother. And now, right this minute, his back was to the wall.

He indicated the blanket he’d tossed on the straw. “You go ahead and get some sleep. I’ll be back in a while.”

“Yes, Pa. And, Pa?”

Matt opened the door, then turned.

Across the barn, his son looked suddenly young and scared, with the blanket draped around his shoulders, his eyes wide in the lantern light. “You might want to try asking Miss McCree, instead of making it sound like a command. You know, like honey instead of a stick.”

Matt nodded. “Thanks, son. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Izzy looked around the bedroom, which was as filthy as the rest of the cabin. Some of Matthew’s clothes hung on pegs along one wall. A couple of shirts. Some pants. The rest had been dropped on the floor. A parka made of some kind of animal fur. Boots, one near the door, the other clear across the room. As though he’d tossed them, or more than likely kicked them, in a fit of temper.

There was a dust-covered dresser, with drawers that had fancy knobs. Above the dresser was an oval mirror, cracked down the middle. She turned away, not wanting to look at herself.

She thought about tidying up the room, but the truth was, she was exhausted. And she still had to wash her clothes in preparation for the difficult journey ahead, since these were the only clothes she owned.

She pulled a very small, very sharp knife from its sheath beneath her sash and hid it under her pillow. Then she sat down tentatively on the edge of the bed. The mattress was rough and scratchy. And lumpy. She wasn’t surprised. It suited this place. With slow, tired movements she untied her new shoes and set them carefully aside. At once her feet began to throb and she had to wiggle her toes for long minutes before she could stand. Then she stripped off her gown and petticoats and peeled off her heavy cotton stockings. Finally she slipped out of her chemise and stood shivering until she was able to pull on her night shift.

Carrying all her clothes to the other room, she dropped them into the basin and filled it with hot water. Quickly, efficiently, she scrubbed her clothes, then draped them over the rough kitchen chairs to dry. That done, she added another log to the fire and made her way to the bedroom.

The bed looked sturdy enough, having been carved from rough logs. And at least, she thought, the chickens hadn’t invaded this space.

She blew out the lantern, then climbed into bed.

She wished she’d been able to do more work before giving up, but the truth was, she was utterly exhausted. And she was facing a long, arduous journey in the morning.

Hugging the blanket to her chin, she huddled into a little ball and fell asleep.

Matt let himself into the still, silent cabin, then breathed deeply. It smelled different. It smelled…clean. Surprised, he stared around. Though it was by no means spotless, it was cleaner than he’d seen it in a year. Much of the rubble had been swept up, and the rest lay in piles along one wall. The indignities left by the chickens had been cleaned up, as well.

By the light of the fire, the filmy, feminine clothes draped over the chairs looked like ghostly specters, mocking him. He walked closer and touched a hand to the delicate chemise. It was as soft as a cobweb and he found himself remembering things better left forgotten.

With a thoughtful frown he walked to the fireplace and, reaching into his pocket, withdrew an envelope and tossed it into the fire. He watched as the blaze licked along the paper, curling it, then bursting it into flame. In an instant the envelope, and the letter inside, had burned to ash.

Odd, he thought. He ought to feel something. Instead, he felt nothing. No pain. No sorrow at his loss. Nothing. Only a sort of numbness where the ache had been for so long.

He struck a match and lifted it to the lantern’s wick. Holding the lantern aloft, he walked into the bedroom.

He felt a momentary shock when he saw the woman lying in his bed. It jolted his already overcharged system to see the spill of plain brown hair curling softly on the pillow. The blanket had slipped, revealing a creamy neck and shoulder and, beneath the modest neckline of a nightgown, the darkened cleft between her breasts.

He walked closer, lifting the lantern for a better look.

That’s when she sat up with a cry of alarm.

“Who…? What…? Sweet salvation. What are you doing here?”

The blanket dipped lower, showing an expanse of flesh that had him sweating.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to…I came here to…” He stopped, swallowed, then tried again. “Seeing as how my children do need a ma, and a woman could be a help around here, I thought I’d give you a choice.”

“Choice?” She was more awake now, though still confused. Behind her, her hand went automatically to the knife beneath her pillow, closed around it. “I don’t understand. Aren’t you going to take me to Sutton’s Station in the morning?”

“Yes. Of course.” He nodded for emphasis. He was handling this badly. But he was determined to bluff his way through, now that he’d started. “But what we do there will be up to you. You can take what little money I have saved, and see how far it will get you. Or—” he swallowed and forced himself to finish before he lost his nerve “—we can find a minister and have a proper wedding, so you can live here as my wife.”

“Your…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. Maybe she was still asleep and dreaming.

No. It wasn’t a dream. It was real. Matthew Prescott was standing here, leaving the choice to her. She could go back to the life she’d always known, or risk it all for a life with this harsh, unyielding man.

“I won’t push for your answer now.” He abruptly lowered the lantern and turned on his heel. He had to get out of here. Now. While he still had some of his senses. The sight of those soft female curves had his heart racing and his temples throbbing. “Sleep on it. You can tell me what you’d like in the morning.” At the door he paused, his look dark and unfathomable. “I’ll understand if you can’t find it in your heart to stay.”

“Matthew…”

“Good night.” He strode quickly from the room.

She heard the door shut, heard the crunch of his footsteps receding as he made his way to the barn.

She released her hold on the knife and lay in the darkness, wondering what to make of their conversation. Had he really had a change of heart? Or was there something else going on here? Something she ought to be wary of?

She hugged the blanket to her chin, grateful for the brief sleep she’d had before he had intruded. It would probably be all the sleep she would get the rest of the night.