Montana Snowfall, page 21
part #7 of McCutcheon Family Series
“Not at all. Truth be known, I’m hungry myself.”
“Then we’ll stop right here at the Biscuit Barrel.”
Roady parked the conveyance and helped Sally down. Just as he pulled open the door to the café, he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Mr. Lichtenstein, owner of the mercantile, hurrying his way. The German’s round face glowed red. He still wore his white work apron and had a pencil stuck behind his ear.
Roady glanced at Sally and shrugged.
“Mr. and Mrs. Guthrie,” Mr. Lichtenstein said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his straight nose once he was before them. “I’m glad you’ve come to town. Saves me a trip out to the ranch—or sheriff’s office.”
“Sheriff’s office?” Roady asked. “What’s this about?”
The shopkeeper’s face didn’t give anything away. “Yes, the sheriff’s office. I don’t choose to get others in trouble vith the law if it can be helped.”
Roady turned to Sally. “Would you like to wait for me inside where it’s warmer?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were dark with worry, her skin as perfect as a pearl. How easy it was when they were like this—playing husband and wife—to forget she was pining for another man, one whose connection would never go away because of the child she carried.
“Go on,” he said. “You’ve piqued our curiosity, Mr. Lichtenstein.”
Shaking with indignation, the merchant handed over a piece of paper. “A list of merchants who have suffered a loss of some kind in the past veek. Problems started when Luke McCutcheon brought that miscreant home with him from Vaterloo.”
Sally warmed his back as she glanced over his shoulder at the list. Mr. Herrick, owner of the leather shop, was missing a hole punch. Mr. Lichtenstein, a pocketknife and grain scoop. Berta May, three skeins of embroidery thread and a spool of expensive lace. A small keepsake clock from the Hitching Post Saloon that had sat on the back shelf for the past fifteen years. A dictionary belonging to Mr. Tracy, the telegraph operator, and a whole chokecherry pie, straight out of the oven at the Biscuit Barrel.
Roady straightened. “Proves right here that Hickory ain’t the culprit, Mr. Lichtenstein. It says a clock from the saloon.”
Mr. Lichtenstein harrumphed triumphantly. “Francis frequents the saloon every time he’s in town—sometimes the boy goes in vith him. Other times, Hickory is left unattended. He’s been seen at each and every one of these establishments. Luke McCutcheon is responsible for him. The businessmen of Y Knot are villing to look the other vay if the boy returns the things he’s taken, after vich, he’s stays out of Y Knot.”
Folding the paper, Roady slipped it into his front pocket. Things didn’t look good for Hickory. “I’ll be sure to give this to Luke, Mr. Lichtenstein.”
“Poor Hickory,” Sally said before lifting a fork of pot roast to her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. “He’s so young. What’ll happen to him after you give the note to Luke?”
Roady used his napkin, glancing at the few other diners in the toasty-warm café. “That’s hard to say. The McCutcheons follow the line of the law directly. So does Brandon Crawford, sheriff of Y Knot. You met Brandon yet?”
She nodded, enjoying the easy way of conversing she and Roady had developed. She watched how his fingers flexed on the stem of his fork, causing a warm goodness to spread through her chest. “I have. The week I spent with Heather at the Klinkners was one of many, many introductions.” She laughed, remembering her panic over the coming baby, and marveled now at how relaxed she felt having supper across from her new husband in this cute café. “We had little else to do but come into town, where Heather showed me around.”
“More like showed you off.”
Her gaze flew to his as a small laugh escaped. “I guess. In any case, I’ve met most of Y Knot’s business owners.”
“Then you know he’s newly married to Charity McCutcheon, Luke’s younger sister. Brandon’s not going to like the boy’s pilfering one little bit. Hopefully the situation will get straightened out without bringing Brandon into it.”
Again, she nodded.
“Don’t worry about the boy. Things have a way of working themselves out.” The green of his eyes deepened. “Tell me how you spent your day. Did you write the letter to your mother?”
Satisfied from the perfectly seasoned meat and other fixings, Sally set her fork in her plate. “I did.” She patted her reticule on the chair beside her. “I have it right here ready to post.”
Roady quirked a brow. “What did you say?”
Sticking to their decision to keep the baby completely secret until they announced it as their own, Sally held to the facts of her marriage that made her happy. And she was happy. She gave a small laugh. “Well, I’m sure they’re all going to be completely flabbergasted, but I told Mother I’d met an amazing man. A man who’d saved my life, and one I wanted to spend the rest of my days with.”
Roady’s fork stilled in midair. His gaze grew intense, searching. It seemed to reach to the bottom of her soul, creating a giddy happiness. His expression thrilled her and was a bit scary at the same time. Like playing with fire, yet knowing how badly what it might lead to could burn.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Roady rested the tines of his fork on his plate. “You said all that?”
“I did.” She took a sip from her water glass.
He cleared his throat, then casually pushed a carrot around on his plate. “What else?”
“I told her about the land and the cabin, and that you worked for a really wonderful family that I’m coming to love. I said I’m close enough to see Heather and Morgan often, and that Montana is the land of God. So beautiful it steals my breath when I least expect it.”
He’d taken another bite, which he chewed slowly. Finished, he pushed back his chair, his eyes actually glistening. “I-I can see why you’re a writer, Sally. That was real pretty.”
Enjoying his attention, and moved deeply he seemed to be affected by her disclosure, she added, “And I said that when she writes me back to address her letter to Mrs. Roady Guthrie, and I’d be sure to get it.”
He swiped at his eye. Looked around, then again at her face. “Did you get time to work on your novel?”
She had. After Amy and Cinder had gone home, she’d gathered her pen and notebook with the intention of writing a whole page. She’d walked out to the lookout, hoping the view would inspire her muse to return.
“I tried, but nothing came to mind.”
“Nothing?” Lines of concern formed between his brows, but he seemed to have recovered from his sentimentality about the letter. “That’s too bad. What’s it about? The story, I mean.”
Was he teasing? Her brothers never took her writing earnestly, making her the brunt of good-natured, brotherly type jokes.
Roady reached out, and she thought he intended to take her hand that rested on the edge of her side of the table. Instead, he lowered his arm and fingered the silver top of the saltshaker halfway between them. “I’m genuinely interested. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
The timbre of his voice reminded her of warm syrup. She forced her heart out onto a limb. If she wanted honesty and trust from him, she needed to give him the same. “It’s about a young woman named Adela Brown. She’s a country girl who is forced to move to a large city and fend for herself after both her parents die from scarlet fever.” Sally had never shared this much of her story with anyone. She lifted a shoulder and sat a little straighter.
His brows rose. “Sounds interesting. What happens?”
“Adela, a proficient cook, and skilled in the ways to keep a proper home, takes the only job she can find as a servant for an elderly woman who is confined to her bed, and who Adela comes to love. Her employer has a nephew who lives on the other side of the city. The only problem is he’s—”
Sally’s sentence was cut short by a young couple who came through the door on a gust of chilly air. As soon as the woman saw Roady, her eyes lit up in surprise. She hurried over, followed by her tall, lanky escort who had removed his hat and held it in his fingers. The woman had a healthy head of curly blond hair, and Sally could see she was in the family way.
“You’re Sally!” she said, stopping in front of their table. “I’m Evie Holcomb, your sister’s friend. I was the first mail-order bride to come to Y Knot—right before Heather.”
Roady stood and held out his hand. “Good to see you, Chance. It’s been a while.”
Sally stood too and hugged Evie. “Of course you’re Evie. I should have recognized you from Heather’s description—and your messages in her letters. She’s told me so much about you.”
Evie turned and gazed up at her tall husband. “This is my husband, Chance Holcomb.” One couldn’t miss the affection in her voice.
Sally smiled at the handsome cowboy, whose soft brown hair was combed neatly for a night out. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Chance Holcomb dipped his chin in response and smiled.
Sally glanced down at Evie’s small tummy protruding in front of her. A strong kinship swirled within. “How’re you feeling?” she asked. “Heather wrote to me the day you found out you were expecting.”
Evie giggled. “Better now that the morning sickness has passed.”
Sally’s face burned, and she sneaked a quick glance at Roady.
Roady pulled out one of the vacant chairs. “I believe these two empty seats have your names on ’em.”
Evie’s smile faded and she said in a concerned voice, “We shouldn’t. You’re newlyweds.”
Roady motioned for her to sit. “That’s the best reason of all. We’ve just about finished our supper, but I’m not leaving without a piece of pie.”
Evie all but glowed. “Dessert is what we came in for. I crave pie all the time, and Chance is so good to indulge me.” She got comfortable, then leaned forward. “I want to hear all about the stagecoach accident and the snowstorm. Heather told me some, but I’m sure it’s better coming from you. What an unbelievable story to tell your children about how you met your own true love. It’s remarkable.”
Sally felt Roady’s gaze on her face. She couldn’t help but look up into his eyes. There was understanding there—and something else. A small smile played around his chiseled lips.
“I couldn’t agree more, Evie,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Sally’ll make a wonderful mother—when the time comes. She’s brave and strong. And determined.”
Sally wondered why Roady would think her brave. He even had the audacity to wink. Everyone at the table saw it and laughed, them thinking one thing, and her knowing Roady meant another.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Roady emptied his pockets onto the highboy in his bedroom, intending to speak with Luke first thing in the morning about Hickory. Spending time with Chance and Evie in the café, and then making a short visit to see Sally’s sister at the lumber mill, they’d returned home much later than he’d planned. The house was quiet, and Sally was doing whatever it was women did before turning in. He wondered if he could expect another late-night visit. Last night had him hopeful, but was she ready for him to take their relationship to a deeper level?
In a quandary, he paused at the window. This bedroom faced away from the front and bunkhouse, and looked out over pastureland and rolling hills. Far off, the moon was just topping the mountains.
Darn if he hadn’t gone and lost the rest of his heart to his wife. That wouldn’t be a problem in the least if she wasn’t pining for the father of her baby. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt as he gazed up at the stars. Stripping it off, he tossed it onto a chair, leaving him in his undershirt. What did the future hold? He’d signed on to this marriage knowing it might take time to win Sally’s heart. Working with animals every day, he knew how to be patient. But to love a woman who might never return his feelings? That would be pure hell. Sure, they were friends, and that was growing stronger every day. But lovers?
He took off his pants, and they followed the path of his shirt. Good thing he’d bought new unmentionables not that long ago.
Knock, knock.
He turned. The muscles in his stomach clenched, and he felt as vulnerable as a day-old calf. What would she do if he tried to kiss her? Sleeping in the same room made him want to rush things. He picked up a wool throw blanket off the chair and wrapped it around his waist. “Come in,” he called in a quiet voice.
Sally stepped in and closed the door behind her. Dressed in her nightclothes and all smiles, she was clearly not thinking along the same lines as he was. Her eyebrow arched at his funny outfit. She came right up to the window and stood next to him. “All dark, nothing to see.”
He smiled, feeling silly. “I was looking at the stars.”
Sally sighed longingly. “It’s so pretty. Takes some getting used to.”
“What?” He knew she meant the stars, but the beauty of her face as she gazed out the window moved his soul.
“The darkness and the stars. The sky in St. Louis was never this bright. I love it here.”
Her sincere tone made his heart catch. “Do you, Sally?”
She turned from the window, a strange look in her eyes. “I thought you knew. I said so in the café tonight.”
“Not really. You said it was beautiful.” It would be so easy right now to fold her into his arms and carry her over to the bed. Show her just how much she meant to him. Was tonight the night? Would there ever be a night? “I only know you’ve a great big hurt deep inside that keeps you from me. That makes me sad.”
Surprised, she took a small step back. The easy feel in the room dissolved. Perhaps the thought of loving him was enough to make her breath come out in little spurts of fear. To her credit, she held his gaze. He’d never been this candid with her. Platitudes about the future—their future—yes. But true, gritty pain, that was something he’d kept to himself.
Angry for probably scaring her off with his impatience, he turned, lit a candle by his bedside, and blew out the lantern. He pulled down the quilt, completely aware that she hadn’t moved a muscle and was watching his every move.
“You want more?” She’d said it so quietly that he almost missed it in his pursuit to discard the blanket at just the right time as he climbed under the cover so she wouldn’t be shocked by his cotton-covered derriere.
Of course he wanted her. She must know that by now. “I’d be lying if I said no.”
If he thought his words would move her into action, he’d been wrong. He couldn’t have misread her that completely during supper and the buggy ride home. She’d sat close to his side and chatted away happily, even flirted a little. She’d laughed and touched his arm ten times, if not once. Now the color had drained from her face as if she were facing a death sentence. If he got out of bed and touched her, she’d pull away.
At a loss and unsure what to do, he murmured, “It’s okay. Don’t mind me.”
Instead of leaving, as he thought, she circled the bed and pulled back the covers. Discarding her robe, she climbed up under the quilt. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he knew what he hoped for. She scooted toward him.
“Sally, you don’t have to do this. There’s plenty of time to get acquainted. No need to rush into something that makes you uncomfortable.” He was rambling, too nervous to admit her proximity was intoxicating. He felt as if he’d just downed a full tumbler of whiskey.
She slowly snuggled next to his side and laid her head on his chest, just above the hand she’d placed there a moment before. He kept his hands at his side and let her relax. Several minutes passed.
“Sally?”
He felt her move.
“Yes?”
He looked down at the woman, his wife, resting on his chest. “I’m not sure what you want me to do.” He longed to touch her, enfold her in his arms, or stroke her beautiful hair that covered her shoulders. He longed to do so many things, but knew she would cringe away, her heart aching for another man. Who was he? And what was he like? What had he done to so completely capture Sally’s heart to where she’d give herself to him?
“I want you to kiss me.”
The second she said the words he felt her stiffen, even though she tried to hide it, which was mighty strange. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out of her embrace and scooted down until they were face-to-face, her warm breath tickling his cheek. “You sure?” he repeated, feeling more than his share of shy.
She nodded and closed her eyes.
Roady gently pressed his lips to hers, but made no other move to hold her. Her lips were warm and soft. When she didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, he pulled away and waited for her to open her eyes.
Her lashes fluttered and then her eyes opened, the soft glow of the candle making it possible for him to see the wave of emotion deep inside her. They were still facing each other, but he was far enough back to see her lips tremble, then one corner pull up into a small smile.
He smiled back. “Did you like that?”
She nodded.
Encouraged, he inched closer, but kept the kiss light. She didn’t respond, but neither did she pull away. Her lips were sweeter than any he remembered, and he fought to keep his desires in check. He carefully brought one arm over her body and touched her nightgown in the middle of her back.
The moment she felt his touch, she froze. An instant later, after two jerky breaths, she bolted up and threw off his arm. “Good night, Roady,” she all but gasped.
Before he could ask what he’d done wrong, Sally slipped out of bed and ran to the door. When it clicked shut, something in his heart cracked and a gripping pain rushed out. He stared at the door, confused.
Chapter Forty-Nine
