Linda Ford

Copyright

ISBN 1-58660-474-0

© 2001 by Linda Ford. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover illustration by Greg Roman.

One

Crane had figured out everything else before he headed west. The farther west he went, the more the neglected detail bothered him.

He leaned forward in his saddle and stared at the town ahead, a fair-to-middling-sized place, looking as if it had sprung helter-skelter from the land with half-finished buildings and a wide dirt street.

“Ain’t much,” he muttered to the ever-patient Rebel.

The horse tossed his head. Town meant a warm stall and a good grooming, and he sidestepped in an effort to get his rider moving.

“Ain’t much,” Crane repeated. “But it ain’t going to get any better.” Towns were meaner and farther apart with every passing day.

He pushed his dusty cowboy hat back from his forehead and scratched his head. “About time for a bath.” And to take care of this other business plaguing his thoughts ever since he’d made up his mind what he was going to do.

“Let’s go.” He flicked the reins and tugged the lead rope of the packhorse. He pulled in under the sign “Colhome General Store,” turning his back on the curious stares of the two old codgers who lounged on the wooden chairs. They were watching him as he secured both horses to the rail.

Crane wiped his palms along his thighs and stepped to the lean-to veranda. One old coot spat on the boards close to Crane’s boots. Crane drew to a halt, glaring at the old man until he wiped his grizzled mouth and turned away.

Inside, Crane paused for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, then ran his gaze over the store interior. Nothing but the usual dusty shelves and two old women fingering some yard goods. The rail-thin storekeep studied Crane over the top of his wire glasses, as if examining some rare and unwelcome bug. Crane fixed him with a steady narrow-eyed look, forcing the man to lower his gaze.

His boots thudded on the oiled boards as he crossed to the counter. “I want to put up a notice.” His lazy drawl gave no hint of the way his insides were knotted up, as if he were scared.

Only he wasn’t scared. He’d thought on this and knew exactly what he was doing. Besides, near as he could figure, there was no other way.

“Go ahead.” The storekeeper jerked a thumb toward the pocked board and busied himself with a handful of bills.

“Got a piece of paper?”

“Sure. Cost you a penny.”

Crane dug a coin from his pocket and flicked it to the counter. The man swept it into his palm and drew a square of paper from under the stained boards, then turned back to his bills. Crane waited, scowling at the top of the man’s head. “Can I borrow a pencil?”

“Sure thing.” He offered a pencil stub on the tip of stained fingers. “No charge.”

Crane licked the lead and carefully wrote the message he’d composed. Finished, he pulled a jackknife from his pocket, dug out a tack, and put up his notice.

The storekeep stretched his neck like a chicken so he could see Crane’s note. He mouthed the words, then glared at Crane.

Crane cared little what the man thought. He retreated to the nails and saws, pretending to examine the merchandise.

“Can I help you?” The bespectacled man watched his every move.

“I’ll let you know.” He edged around so he could see the door.

A gray-haired matron bustled in, conducted her business, and left. One of the old codgers from the veranda shuffled to the door, peered in, then returned to his post. Two schoolgirls came in, whispering and giggling, selected two cents’ worth of candy, and giggled their way out.

Crane waited, ignoring the looks he got. His stomach rumbled.

He’d about decided to come back later when the door opened and another lady hustled in. Crane squinted, but against the bright window he couldn’t determine whether she was young or old, ugly or otherwise. All he could say for certain was that she was reed thin, wore a dark dress, and moved as if she were in a hurry. He tensed and drew in his breath.

The girl, or woman if she was that, rushed to the counter, bent over it to make a low-spoken request, then turned as the storekeep chose an item from behind the counter. The girl checked the room in a sweeping glance and, with nothing to detain her interest, studied the notice board, bending forward as she saw Crane’s notice.

Crane began to sweat. His stomach had been kissing his backbone for a spell and now groaned so loud he was sure it could be heard across the room.

She tore the notice from the board and shoved it toward the storekeep. “You know who put this up?”

The man behind the counter jerked his head toward Crane. She whirled to face him. He wished he could see her better, but before he could figure a way, she marched across the floor, her steps crisp and quick.

“You the man who wrote this?” She shook the note in his face.

She’s not very big. In fact, she looks as if a stiff wind will blow her away.
His mind whirled without lighting on another thought. Again his stomach growled. “Yup,” he managed through the confusion of his thoughts.

She studied him from head to toe, taking her time about it.

He wondered what she saw. A dusty cowboy, lean and tough as shoe leather? Another saddle bum with too-long blond hair darkened by days in the saddle?

Suddenly his arms felt too long, and he crossed them over his chest. Her gaze lingered on his boots. He followed her stare, wishing he’d taken time to remove the evidence of the last trail ride.

She jerked her head up and boldly met his eyes.

He braced himself.

“I’m a God-fearing woman. I’ll be your wife.” Never once did she blink.

His thoughts exploded. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Nor could he explain why he’d worded the notice the way he did, but something inside insisted she must be God-fearing. Her gaze bore into his until he clenched his jaw. Her look demanded an answer, and he croaked, “Yup.”

Her brow puckered, and she glanced at the note in her hand. “You write this yourself?”

“Yup.” His mind spun like the wheel on a runaway buggy. Now would be a good time to find the back door and use it, but her eyes riveted him to the spot. The light caught in her hair. Black, he thought. Black and shiny.

“Then I guess you can read and write. But can you talk?”

Beads of sweat collected on Crane’s forehead. He managed another “Yup.” At the sound of his own voice, thick and slow, his brain slammed its fist. He grabbed her elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”

There was no resistance in her arm as they hustled from the store. Outside, desperate for a retreat from the prying eyes following his every move, he turned in the direction of the river. Despite her shortness, the girl had no trouble keeping up with his hurried strides. He liked that, he decided.

Neither of them slowed until they ducked through the sprawling willows and faced the tumbling river. He dropped his hold on her arm and stared at the sparkling water.

“I’m headed west. Going to start a new life. I need a woman—a wife.” He’d said it badly, but the fine words he’d practiced for three days had fled.

“Fine. I’m willing.”

He looked at this woman who had agreed to marry him. He could see over her head without a hair in his view. Small, he thought again. And thin. He narrowed his eyes. She looked downright starved. But he liked the way the light caught in her hair, trapped in the black strands.

He met her eyes then. Blue as ink and unblinking. Full of defiant challenge. Even the way she stood, hands clenched at her side, feet gripping the ground, spoke a warning. He couldn’t help but admire her spunk.

As he studied her more closely, he wondered if he’d made a dumb move. He had no desire to get hitched to a dirty woman, and this was one of the dirtiest he’d seen. Although her hair had been brushed smooth and tied at her neck, her dress was ragged and soiled, and—he wrinkled his nose—she desperately needed a bath. Her eyes narrowed as if reading his mind, and again her gaze traveled his length as if to remind him of his own condition.

“I meant to have a bath as soon as I hit town,” he said.

She nodded. “I’m dirty, and I know it. Don’t need no reminding. The dirt will come off with a dip in the river, but I won’t pretend I’m something I’m not. This dress is all I got.” Her eyes amazed him. Never once shifting away from his, they darkened, and he saw—no, he felt—her pride like a fist driven into his chest.

Pushing his hat back, he rubbed his forehead. Clothes and bathing were easy to solve, but other things needed to be sorted out. “First things first,” he murmured.

She nodded.

“Are you running away?” All he needed was an angry father or husband barking at his heels.

Her jaw tightened. “Not running away—running to.”

“And what would you be meaning by that?”

“Same as you. I’m looking for a new life.”

“I’m not promising you anything but a home, a fair share of whatever I have, and probably lots of hard work.” He’d struggled for three days for a way to say this, to make plain what he wanted and at the same time let her know what he did not expect. He did not expect love or passion, only a wife and a home to complete his new life.

“You trying to say this is to be a businesslike arrangement?” Her clear voice was brittle.

He nodded.

“You’re wanting to make sure I’m not expecting romance?”

He grimaced at the way she spat it out but silently thanked her for putting words to his thoughts. “I’m looking for a partner for my new life, nothing more.”

Her blue eyes flashing, she drew herself straighter and fixed him with a hard look. “Fine. I’m willing to work, and I don’t need much. There’s only one thing.”

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

Her scowl was dark. “You ever hit me and I’m gone.”

Crane jerked back at the thought. He wasn’t a fool. He knew some men figured women were no better than a cow or a dog, but he had been raised differently. His frail mother would have dissolved at his feet if he’d even raised his voice in anger.

He studied the creature glowering at him and decided she could hardly be considered frail despite her small size. She
had the bearing and boldness of a born fighter, and he wanted to know more about her.

“I will never hit you,” he promised, but her shoulders remained hunched. “And if I ever do, you can leave without any questions asked.”

Slowly she relaxed, and Crane let his breath out. Again they studied each other.

“My name’s Crane.” He held out his hand.

She hesitated, then grasped it and gave a quick shake. “I’m Maggie.”

Her hand was very small, yet her grip firm.

“We’ll go back to the store and get enough for the coming months.” He felt her shift in emotions even before he saw her eyes darken with what he figured must be acceptance, even anticipation. “We’re both needing a bath. We’ll go to the hotel and shed ourselves of this dirt.”

“I’d as soon bathe in the river,” she announced.

He searched her eyes for a clue to her meaning, but she continued to stare at him fiercely.

Finally he shrugged. “Suit yourself. Now let’s get fixed up.” He strode in the direction of town, leaving Maggie to follow at his heels.

They proceeded directly to the store. The uncooperative storekeep’s attitude changed quick as a wink when he saw the coins Crane clinked to the counter. “We’ll be needing a few things,” Crane muttered, his gaze following Maggie as she plucked two dresses from the ready-made rack. He’d instructed her to buy all she would need without regard for cost. “No telling what we’ll find ahead of us.” Within minutes she had gathered a number of items, hesitating before she added a cake of soap and a length of toweling.

He would have preferred to lie back in a tub of hot water, but he followed her back to the river, leading the horses and carrying the bundle from the store. With a murmured explanation, she pointed toward a canopy of overhanging willows. Crane nodded and followed the river in the opposite direction until he found another secluded spot.

The water was still icy from the spring thaw. Crane lathered up quickly, then held his breath as he plunged under the surface, shaking his head and shuddering as he emerged. The brisk rubdown restored but a fraction of the heat he’d lost in his dip. Running a comb through his hair, he wondered if he had time for a barbershop cut and as quickly dismissed the idea. He wanted only one thing, and that was to get this done with and get back on the trail.

He waited for Maggie to reappear. When she pushed aside the willows, his mouth fell open, and he stared.
She cleans up real nice.
Her scrubbed skin held the pink glow of a sunset.

“You look good,” he murmured, amazed when the pink in her cheeks deepened, and he understood it was because of what he said.

“You too,” she said.

He shuffled as warmth crept up his neck and hoped his cheeks didn’t darken in the same telltale way.

They retraced their steps to the heart of town and a low building offering food.

“I bringee man big breakfast?” offered the waiter of uncertain origins.

“What would you be wanting, Maggie?”

Maggie perched on the edge of the chair, her glance darting about the room. Crane knew the moment she’d checked every person and knew too she had been looking for something or someone. Finding them absent, she filled her lungs and relaxed. “The same.”

After days of campfire cooking and gulping from a tin cup, Crane savored the hot coffee served in heavy white china. His concentration eliminated the need for conversation yet gave him a chance to study his soon-to-be bride, suddenly struck by how young she looked.

“How old are you?” He had no intention of playing her nursemaid.

“Eighteen.” Again that blue-eyed directness. “But I know how to work and take care of myself if that’s what’s bothering you. How old are you?” She drummed her fingers on the table.

He had to think. “Twenty-seven, near as I can recall.” He chuckled. “And I know how to work and take care of myself.”

She blinked, then laughed, low and musical. Her blue eyes sparkled with splinters of light. Crane stared like an idiot.