Marry Me Page 4

  But here…if she chose to paint the walls purple, leave her clothes strewn over the floor, drag the kitchen table beside the bed, no one could say her nay.

  But her happiness dimmed each time she came across his personal property. Her hands, which had flown through their tasks all morning long, so quickly the rest of her had barely been able to keep up, slowed when they touched the clothes that hung limply over the bed. He’d never said “ours,” only “mine,” as if he’d lived there alone. But there’d obviously been a woman there.

  What should she do with it all? It would be a shame to leave things unused, to waste and rot when she had need of them. But so much seemed his now; no longer an abstract construct, he’d taken on shape and size and ownership. How could she sleep in his bed, on his sheets, and not wonder about him? The mild curiosity she’d felt yesterday sharpened and focused to a needle point.

  Finally she decided to pack up the most personal of the items in case he chose to return for them someday. She’d use the rest—the pots, the furniture, the tools—and consider them part of her claim. She needed them, and if they’d mattered to him at all, surely he would have taken them with him.

  Busy as she was, noon came and went before she realized she’d forgotten to eat. But she’d made an excellent dent in her duties; it did not take long to move in, she reflected, when one did not have much to move. Unfortunately, she’d also begun a much more extensive list of necessary purchases than her pocketbook would bear.

  Deciding to tackle the floor next, she grabbed a bucket in each fist and headed outside. And stopped dead three steps from the door.

  “What are you doing?” She dropped both buckets, lifted damp-edged skirts in both hands, and ran. It didn’t take long, for it couldn’t have been more than thirty yards.

  He didn’t even look up at her shout, merely lifted the mallet he held and slammed it down, shooting a stake deeply into the ground with one stroke. Around him were stacked boxes and bags, a coil of rope, a neatly folded pile of canvas. To the north, a horse, its coat deep red and shiny in the sun, nibbled at the lush grass and appeared no more interested in her approach than his master did.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Putting up a tent.” He gripped the stake in one big fist and gave it a waggle. When it stayed firm, he nodded and rose.

  She’d known he was big. His shirts would have covered her twice over, and last night he’d had to duck to come through the door. Still, knowing it in a vague, general way was very different from coming up against an immovable man, as big as life. It was difficult to go toe to toe with someone when your nose was level with his chest, a very broad chest covered in worn and stained cotton.

  “I thought you left.”

  “I did.” He paced off three long steps. “Now I’m back.”

  “But—” She scanned all the boxes that littered the site and wondered how the poor horse had managed to carry everything. “You can’t put all that here!”

  “Really?” he asked mildly, as if she’d just commented on the fine weather.

  “Yes, really.” Her temper threatened to spike, and she held on to it with effort. She truly was sympathetic to his plight. But it would be much easier to remain so if he didn’t persist in being so, well, rude about the whole thing. “I understand this must be difficult for you, but surely you understood the terms of homesteading when you filed. When you left, you must have known it would likely be claimed by the time you returned.”

  “Never planned to come back.” And then he jerked, his arm halting in mid-swing before dropping to his side, as if he hadn’t intended to say that and the words caught him by surprise.

  “I see.” His hair, shaggy, dark, hung low to his shoulders; an equally wild beard covered the rest of his face, making it nearly impossible to read his expression. Only a glimpse of his eyes gave anything away, dark as his hair, deeply guarded. More like a wounded bear than an angry one.

  He dragged over a pine crate and pried off the top, revealing neat rows of cans that gleamed dully in the sun. “Understood the rules just fine.” He straightened, speared her with a glare. “Do I look like I couldn’t understand what I signed my name to?”

  Perhaps that had occurred to her. Maybe. “Do I look like the sort of woman who’d make hasty assumptions about others based on incomplete information?”

  “Yeah, you do.” And then, before she could protest, “Also looks like you’re too slick to admit it.”

  “Now who’s making assumptions?”

  “Me,” he admitted, completely unconcerned with her accusation. He kicked at the roll of canvas, unfurling the creamy material against the rich deep green of the prairie grass.

  Around them the land, which seemed so flat and monotonous at first glance, seethed with life. Blue-bells and anemones popped open across it, drifts of color veiling the green. A hawk swooped low and wheeled back up, swift and sure.

  She could see why he found it hard to give up. But there was plenty of land here, great stretches of it, surely enough for both of them. She couldn’t afford to go looking for another place. But even if she left, he was still going to have to pay the fees again and could do it as easily on another claim as on this one.

  “I understand this must be difficult for you—”

  “You keep sayin’ that.” His voice flattened, hard and flinty as shale. “You don’t know anything about what it must be for me. Not one damn thing.”

  “Nevertheless, we’re going to have to discuss our…predicament. This is obviously unacceptable.”

  “What’s to discuss? Soon as you give up, I’m moving in.” He heaved the canvas over the frame he’d constructed and bent to tie the ropes around the stakes he’d buried. “That’s all either one of us needs to know.”

  Emily was famous for her patience, her cheerful good nature. The worst tantrums of Dr. Goodale’s most difficult patients never fazed her. And yet, when he bent over his work, ignoring her and leaving her with a view of the back of his head, his thick, tangled hair, blue shirt torn open and fraying over a powerful shoulder, she’d never been so tempted to battle to the end.

  “This is my land, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. You’re going to have to pack this all up and take it back to where you got it.”

  “Yeah? You gonna put me over your shoulder and throw me off?”

  “You can’t simply camp here and wait for me to fail!”

  “Can’t I?” He sat back on his heels and looked up at her, shadowy eyes glinting with what, in any other man, might have been amusement. “Watch me.”

  After she’d marched back to the shack, her skirts swishing furiously around what he was sure were skinny little bird legs, she didn’t poke her nose out for almost an hour. Once or twice he thought he caught a flutter of movement in the window, at which point he threw himself into theatrically arranging his meager camp. It wasn’t long on comfort, but he’d slept in far worse. And he wasn’t planning to live in the tent for long.

  And then she came back, crossing that thirty yards like Napoleon taking the battlefield, arms pumping, head high. She’d gussied up some, had on a frothy little hat with a white feather that dipped low and drew attention to her eyes, a shiny blue blouse that made her skin look like cream, and gloves so white they reflected the sun.

  He mentally trimmed the time he figured he’d have to wait for her to go running back to wherever she’d sprouted. She’d last until wash day, maybe, the first time she had to lug and heat enough water to try and stay that fresh and neat.

  This one didn’t really think he’d be susceptible to a prettied-up female, did she? That he’d take one look at her all dressed up for battle and say: Oh sure, ma’am, keep it. Whatever you want.

  Not to mention that if charming him out of his claim was what she had in mind, she’d do better to see if she couldn’t manage a friendlier expression. She looked more like someone on her way to clean an outhouse than flatter a man out of his land.

  He’d no idea what brought her to
Montana. Told himself he didn’t care, refused to be the slightest bit interested in her story. But still…she wasn’t the usual type to come there—a sturdy farm girl, a determined widow. Probably just caught by some stray whim, he decided, trying to avoid the suitor Daddy picked out for her.

  “I’m leaving,” she began.

  “So soon?” he interrupted. “Thanks for cleaning up the place for me, by the way. Looks good.”

  “Not permanently!” Heat flashed into her cheeks. Her fingers flexed in those pristine white gloves, as if she wished she could wrap them around his neck. “I have some”—she hesitated delicately—“business to attend to.”

  “Nice of you to keep me informed. Right neighborly of you.”

  “I’ll be back this evening. Tomorrow, at the very latest.”

  He waited.

  “I came to inform you that my absence is merely temporary. I am not, I repeat”—she glared at him, as if by doing so she could bore the words right into his thick skull—“not quitting the place permanently.”

  “Understood you the first time.”

  “Well, in our brief acquaintance, I have discovered the necessity of being absolutely precise in my explanations. Therefore I am also informing you that it would be a very bad action on your part to simply take up residence in my absence.”

  Now there was an idea. Not that he had any legal right to do so, but forcing her to try to pry him out might be worth the trouble. “Would I do that?”

  “As of this point, I do not believe I have tested the limits of what you would do.” Her feather dropped into her eye, and she huffed it away. “However, I do believe that the government has recently taken a more active interest in prosecuting claim jumpers. While I freely admit to my own inability to remove you bodily myself, I expect federal agents might be somewhat more successful.”

  He hadn’t meant to watch her leave. No reason to waste any more time on her than necessary. Still, he found himself looking after her, watching her feather bob gallantly with each step, her small figure disappear and reappear as she strode over swells and back down into draws. The grass waved as high as her thighs, but it didn’t slow her a bit, her pace steadily urgent, heading off into the emptiness until the sun’s glare swallowed her up.

  Maybe he should follow her. The thought jerked his head back—now where the hell had that come from? If there was ever a person less equipped to go chasing off alone into the middle of nowhere, he couldn’t imagine it. She was liable to wander around in circles until her feet fell off.

  And wouldn’t it be downright dumb of him, halting his work to make sure she was safe and sound? It was broad daylight, and the weather promised to be fine for some time. They’d never had much problem with rattlesnakes in this section of the state, the coyotes stayed away from people most of the time, and the Indians were safely tucked behind reservation fences. Plus he’d noticed when he rode out here that there were a lot more claim shacks scattered around than when he’d left—she couldn’t go more than a mile or two without stumbling onto one. She’d be fine. And really, wouldn’t a night spent cold and lonely and lost be just what she needed to send her skittering back East? Hell, he’d drive her to the train himself.

  And, later that evening, after he’d pried open a tin of beans and wolfed them down cold, when he took Reg out for a long ride just before sunset, he assured himself he did it only for the entertainment.

  She didn’t return until the next morning after all, and she brought a man back with her.

  A skinny man with a gait like a turkey, all trussed up in a fancy gray suit, who drove her home in a nifty little buggy pulled by a handsome gray gelding Jake couldn’t help but envy. He handed her down—pretty manners, this one; leave it to her to find the one man in Montana exactly like all the ones she’d left back East.

  She shot Jake one glance—simmering with triumph that he could detect even all the way over there—before they disappeared into the shack. Before long a tendril of smoke curled out of the pipe, drifting against the flawless blue sky. Making him lunch, no doubt. Wasn’t taking her any time at all to show off her culinary skills.

  But it explained why she’d come there. Husband hunting—yeah, that made sense. Maybe she’d gotten herself good and compromised back home and been shipped where women were scarce enough that men couldn’t be quite so picky about details of a bride’s past.

  Well, she was a fine enough looking woman, if you liked them pale and little and proper. She should snag some poor sucker in no time—the sooner, the better, as far as Jake was concerned. Though he’d have to check into whether the guy had a claim of his own or planned on hitching on to hers. Didn’t look like he’d be much trouble to scare off if it came to that.

  Jake plopped onto the chair he’d arranged specifically to provide a perfect view of her front door, grabbed the first book of the stack he’d picked up in McGyre, and settled in to wait. He’d let them nibble—she looked like she’d nibble—their meal in peace, he decided charitably, before he went poking around to see what was up.

  Turned out he didn’t have to poke at all. Three chapters later the pair of them headed straight for him, her gloved hand tucked proprietarily in the crook of the suit’s arm.

  Jake tucked his finger in his book to hold his place. She was looking quite pleased with herself, but the guy appeared a little pale around the edges. He wondered if she’d somehow talked the poor fellow into throwing Jake bodily off the land; he hoped she’d made it well worth his while, considering the bruises the poor sap was likely to earn in the process.

  The guy didn’t look any more impressive up close; his neck couldn’t have been bigger than Jake’s wrist, his skin darn near as pale as hers. It was downright insulting that she considered this lowly specimen a fair match for him.

  The guy shot her an uncertain look. She smiled sweetly at him, patted his arm in encouragement, and Jake could practically see the man grow half a foot, puffing up in her admiration. It really was not a credit to his sex, Jake thought in disgust, that they were so easily manipulated by a woman’s smile. Even though it really was a fine specimen of a smile, one that seemed to generate its own sunshine. The effect had to be calculated, but it looked as genuine as if it’d sprung generously from a warm heart.

  “I’m Imbert Longnecker.” The man cleared his throat. “The land agent for this district.”

  Jake lifted a deliberate brow. “Yeah?”

  “Emily here…ah”—he cleared his throat, plunged on—“Miss Bright, well, it seems as if there’s some disagreement over the ownership of this land. But I assure you the legalities are indisputable. I recorded Miss Bright’s claim myself and there can be no question of her clear title.”

  “Well, now, that place you’re standing, right over there, that’s hers all right. Least it will be, if she manages to stick it out.” He let that comment hang long enough to imply he considered that outcome extremely doubtful. “But this, right here, this is on the Blevinses’ side of the line.”

  “What?” Miss Bright—what a name, he wondered if she’d picked it herself—dropped the besotted fool’s arm as if it burned her.

  “Yup.” Jake pointed toward the shack. “You see, Mr. Longnecker, I built that place. I put it all the way over here, almost to the property line, because it was closer to the nearest stream that way. Figured on saving myself some carrying until we got a well drilled. But this”—he tapped the ground with his foot—“this here belongs to Joe Blevins. Paid him five bucks to let me camp here for as long as I wanted. I figure I’m a good three feet this side of the property line.”

  “I—” Longnecker looked down at Miss Bright, whose mouth was open in surprise, bright flags of color high on her cheeks as if she’d painted them there. “You won’t mind if I check my maps, make a few calculations, do you?” he asked, patting her hand consolingly, trying to salvage the role of hero as best he could.

  “Be my guest.” Poor sap. Miss Bright didn’t strike him as the sort who’d make playing hero wort
h a man’s while. Best old Imbert there was going to get out of the deal was a slice of homemade pie—and she was too thin-hipped to be much of a cook.

  The two of them trotted back to the buggy. He dug around awhile, dragged out a whole sheaf of papers and maps, and proceeded to study them. Miss Bright stood on her tiptoes and craned her neck over his shoulder, as if she might discover something the land agent would miss, ensuring a decision in her favor.

  Then again, he thought, frowning, if she kept cuddling up against Longnecker like that the agent might side with her anyway. Jake knew damn well he was on the right side of the line; he’d checked it a half-dozen times to be sure.

  Well, if they tried to claim otherwise, they’d get more than they bargained for in him. Maybe he’d even enjoy the fight. There’d been a time when he had—or the young man he’d been then had; that man seemed more a stranger than Longnecker now.

  He got bored watching them dither over the maps, returned to his book, and sped through another two chapters before the agent climbed back on his buggy and snapped the reins over his horse. He slumped on the seat, and even his jaunty black hat seemed to droop lower than when he’d arrived.

  It was most uncharitable of Jake to be so amused by the man’s predicament. Hell, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done a dumb thing or two in his time for wanting a woman. He should have more sympathy.

  But it wouldn’t keep him from prodding Miss Bright a bit. He ambled toward where she stood waving after the departing buggy with what, in his opinion, was overdone enthusiasm.

  She broke off flapping and met him halfway.

  “You did that on purpose.”

  “Did what?” He tucked his thumbs in his pockets and shifted his weight to one hip.

  “You could have told me. Could have explained that you weren’t on my land and saved me dragging Mr. Longnecker all the way out here.”

  “Somehow I don’t think he minded. Besides, it didn’t come up. Hardly my fault that you assumed I’d engaged in an illegal activity, Miss Bright.”