Guardian Bride (12 page)

her throat and pound mercilessly. They hadn't spoken since

the kiss. She wasn't embarrassed by what they'd done—

matter of fact she'd give her right arm to have it happen

again. It was all too confusing and so overwhelming.

She gave her head a clearing shake. "Why did you build

the granary so far from the house?"

His look grew thoughtful for a moment. "Because grain

storage attracts rats and other varmints. Besides, this is Ma's

house. I bought the acreage next to here a few years ago. I

plan on building a house there someday. But not near the

granary. I wouldn't want rats around my house either."

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"Will you store the wheat all year?" She kept the

conversation going, mainly because it was a safe subject.

"No. Mr. Everest in Dodge said he'd buy all I wanted to

sell. I'll keep enough to plant this fall and some to experiment

with."

"Experiment what?"

"New crossbreeds. Winter wheat does well out here. The

Russian immigrants know a lot about dry land agriculture and

have had some success doing so here. I've combined their

knowledge with a derivative of wheat. Winter wheat is hearty

and when planted in the fall it establishes a deep root system

as well as thick foliage above ground. When the ground

freezes, the tops of the plants goes dormant, but the roots

stay alive and absorb moisture from the snow. When spring

comes, the plants utilize the moisture they saved up and by

early summer, it's ready for harvest. No irrigation needed.

I've pretty much concluded it's one of the few plants that can

thrive out here without irrigation."

She'd moved to the stove and busied herself by making a

fresh pot of coffee. "What other seeds are you experimenting

with?"

He chuckled. "Everything from trees to flowers. I'm hoping

the irrigation system I created has kept everything growing

while I'm laid up."

The land surrounding the farm yard came to mind. It had

astonished her to see such a variety of trees and plants when

she'd first arrived. Most of this part of the state was covered

with little more than sage brush and soap weeds.

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"Several years ago," he said, drawing her attention back to

him. "I went to Garden City with Kid. It's only about twenty

miles south of here."

She nodded, familiar the area.

"A few men who used to hunt buffalo out here had decided

to settle down there." He paused as if just remembering

something. "That's why my father chose this area to settle.

He scouted for wagon trains, and then buffalo hunters. Even

Royalties from England came out here to hunt in those days.

After the hunting died out, he tried his hand at farming.

Guess that's where I get it from."

He sat for a moment in silence, staring at the cup sitting

on the table in front of him. When he lifted his head, he

continued, "Anyway, I went to Garden, well at that time it

was called Fulton, with Kid and some other men because the

cattlemen didn't like the idea of a settlement sprouting up in

the middle of the route they used to get the cows to Dodge.

Kid and the others wanted to talk the folks into moving east a

bit. The folks at the settlement didn't want to move. A

rancher closer to Dodge told them they couldn't grow so

much as weeds in the dry ground. The settlers disagreed, and

thinking he'd prove them wrong, the rancher offered fifty

bucks for every bushel of corn grown. I left town with the

challenge in my head. A few weeks later, I went back to the

settlement and told Mr. Fulton I could help him grow enough

corn that the rancher would go broke paying him off."

Intrigued, she moved to the table and sat down. "What

happened?"

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His smile went from ear to ear. "A year later they renamed

the settlement Garden City because of Fulton's bountiful

garden."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"What had you done to make everything grow?"

"Irrigation."

She waited for him to continue.

"One windmill with a large enough reservoir can irrigate

ten to twenty acres."

"How?"

"The windmill pumps the water out of the ground and into

the reservoir which flows into ditches that carry the water to

the fields from one end of the crops to the other. I put in

gates to slow or increase the water as needed." He glanced

up. "The water under the ground in this region is

inexhaustible, and it's not far below the surface. I've also

discovered several natural springs on my land and use those

to irrigate some fields."

A frown formed between his brows. Summer held her

breath, wondering what he thought about now. Was it the

kiss? It wasn't far away in her mind. The coffee boiled over

behind her, and she leaped to remove it from the heat. Once

the frothing slowed, she filled his cup.

His fingers wrapped around her wrist when she attempted

to move from his side. "You know." His gaze locked onto hers.

"I haven't even told my brothers about how I helped Fulton."

"Why not?"

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He shrugged. "We all have our interests. Kid has his cattle,

one of the largest ranches in the state, and Skeeter has his

dinosaurs." He winked. "That's a long story. Hog was always

in the kitchen, so opening a restaurant seemed fitting, and

Bug can sniff out rock tar from a mile away. He claims the oil

seeps will transform America. They know about my

gardening, but I never told them about Fulton."

She set the pot down and sat in the chair next to him.

"Why? Did he ask you not to?"

"No. He offered to pay me for my help."

"Did he make lots of money from the rancher for his

bushels of corn?"

"No, the rancher never made good on his bet."

He went silent again, and Summer's stomach churned,

believing he must be remembering another bet. The hand

holding hers moved. His thumb softly ran up and down the

underside of her wrist, causing an array of tingles to zip up

her arm.

"I told Fulton he could repay me by buying interests in the

first flour mill they were opening in the city. He kept his word.

I own one fourth of the mill that Bug and Eva took the wheat

to."

"Does your family know that?" she asked. The fact he'd

told her things he'd never told anyone else filled her with a

sweet, heady sensation. No one had ever told her a secret

before and it seemed like a very special gift.

"No."

"If you own interest in the mill, why did you sell your

wheat to the mill in Dodge?"

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His hand left her wrist, and she swallowed at the absence.

He took a swig of coffee before answering, "Because I

don't believe in keeping all my eggs in one basket. The mill in

Dodge is buying my wheat for seed, to sell to farmers. It's a

hybrid I created, so therefore I can set my own price. The mill

in Garden is a flour processing mill. The grain I sent there will

be turned into flour for us to use, not for resale."

"Because you own shares in it, do they process your wheat

for free?"

"No. I pay like everyone else does. The difference is I earn

profits off processing my own wheat, as well as every other

bushel they mill."

"Oh," she answered, rubbing her wrist that still fluttered

from his touch.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"You must have a secret or two."

She had enough secrets to fill a bushel basket twice over.

Her bottom lip trembled as she wondered what one to tell

him, figured it was only fair. She certainly couldn't tell him

she knew his father—well Jonas' spirit anyway—and she

couldn't tell him how July had killed his father. There were a

million other small things she kept to herself, but nothing

overly interesting.

His eyes had settled on her as he waited patiently. For

some reason, the secret that ate at her like lye sprang

forward. "I don't know who fathered me."

"You don't?"

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"No. I don't know if I'm Osage, Arapaho, Wichita, or

Pawnee. I don't even know if he was from one of the tribes in

this region or some other."

"Why not?"

"My mother never told me." Tears formed in the back of

her eyes, but she held them at bay. "She started to once, but

July heard her. He hit her until she was unconscious. I never

asked after that."

"Bastard," Snake muttered under his breath, but she heard

it. He took her hand again. "You don't remember your father

at all?"

"I only remember July. I don't know when nor where he

and my mother met, if it was before I was born or after." She

shrugged as if it didn't matter, but deep down, it did. It

always had. "I used to make up tales to tell people when

they'd asked, especially other children when I was young. But

after mother died..." The lump in her throat made her stop.

"What? After your mother died..." He lifted her hand and

rubbed her knuckles with the point of his chin.

The contact eased the gloom bearing down. "I guess it

didn't matter anymore. I had September and August to take

care of, which left very little time to worry about me and my

past."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His hold drew her closer.

"You're sorry? Why? None of it's your fault."

"I know, but I'm sorry you've been hurt by it. I'm sorry

you didn't have a wonderful, happy childhood."

"Did you?" she asked. "Have a wonderful, happy

childhood?"

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"For the most part, I think I did. It was hard to lose my

father, but"—he shrugged—"we had each other. We all got

through."

A lump formed in her throat—guilt at knowing who caused

the loss of Jonas. What would this kind and wonderful family

do when they found out it was July? They'd hold it against her

and the children. Who wouldn't?

He'd leaned closer. The warmth of his breath tickled her

lips. Even tormented by the secrets filling her mind, a swell of

excitement rippled from her toes to the top of her head. Her

mind escaped to that wonderful place it went when he'd

kissed her earlier. Where birds sang and breezes blew soft

and sweet, and not a single, dark, gloomy concern darkened

the world.

Her lids fluttered down when his warmth mingled with

hers. The contact, his lips brushing against hers, was gentle

and engaging. She leaned closer, to amplify the touch.

Floating in the dreamlike ecstasy, she parted her lips, enticed

by the way his tongue ran along the swell of her bottom lip.

At that precise moment, when the tip of his tongue slid over

the row of her bottom teeth, someone knocked on the door.

They turned to the sound, noses colliding, and ended up

cheek to cheek, staring at the door as the sound came again.

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Snake leaned back in his chair and squeezed her fingers.

"Don't worry. Wainwright wouldn't knock."

Summer swallowed. The thought it was Wainwright hadn't

entered her mind. Her gaze locked on the door. She had no

idea who stood on the other side, but their knock caused a

deep disappointment that had little to do with who it might

be.

She stood but he kept his grip on her. "Hand me the gun

belt hanging next to the door before you open it."

A quiver happened then, one that told her she'd better not

let her guard down so easily in the future. Nor should she

allow herself to be carried away so swiftly.

By the time she'd done as instructed whoever was on the

other side of the door beat on it steadily and a feminine voice

shouted, "Scott! Scott Quinter, open this door!"

Snake's face contorted into a pained look. "Open it," he

advised. "She won't go away."

Debating if she wanted to open it or not, Summer walked

to the door, knowing there was no choice. As soon as she

turned the knob, the door flew out of her hands.

A whirlwind of pink and yellow flew past her, screeching,

"Scott Quinter, why didn't you call for me?"

Summer caught herself from being knocked down by

grabbing the wall. Once her feet settled beneath her, she

turned to the table. A tiny woman, covered in ruffles and lace,

knelt beside Snake's chair. A fierce rumble rolled across

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Summer's stomach. The nails of her fingers bit into her

palms. It was all she could do not to stomp across the room

and grab the creature by the back of her blond curls.

A tall man entered then, and seeing her next to the door,

he removed his hat. "Hello," he said, extending a hand. "I'm