Marrying Minda (3 page)

And it did. He liked Norman Dale's brood just fine, but had no idea what the hell to do with them. He knew all about calves, fillies, and johnny mules but not one damn thing about kids. His life in Texas gratified every inch of him. The open sky and endless miles. Hearth, home, and young'uns were the farthest things from his mind.

The rich rancher's daughter who'd betrayed him had taught him that lesson and taught him well. He shot Minda a hot, angry glance. She was worse. This one hadn't just
broken
a man's heart. She'd managed to stop it.

Yes, indeed. She owed Norman Dale. She owed Brix, too, as well as the kids. From the moment she stepped off that stage, she'd planned to take on a husband and family. And the kids sure as hell expected a new ma. This marriage was the answer. If she was smart as Norman Dale had claimed, she'd have sense enough to see it.

With nothing to worry about now, Brix would be back in Texas outside of a week's time. His trail boss was an impatient man.

“This fixes nothing, Mr. Haynes,” she stormed. “You've tricked me.”

“Reverend Satterburg himself and all these fine folks heard you promise to be my wife today,” he said.

“I did no such thing. Not exactly, I mean. Not
you
. I thought you were Norman Dale.” Then she nodded slowly. “Oh, I see. Even the preacher was in on it. That's why he didn't say our Christian names. Because if he'd said—what is your name anyway? I'd have refused on the spot. And what about—?” She waved her arms about the tables of people watching them from the corners of their eyes. “—all of these folks? They're all tricksters too?
This whole town?"

“Most thought it a fine change of plan. Better than you come all this way and not find a husband.” He wouldn't mention the few that hadn't agreed. Truth was, he had expected them to protest during the ceremony. The schoolmaster, and Norman Dale's nearest neighbor, even the reverend's wife had been against it. But clearly, they'd changed their way of thinking.

“What a ridiculous notion. Well, Mr. Haynes, this is not at all why I came to Paradise. I had nothing to do with Norman Dale's death, and I don't owe him a thing. Dying wish, my foot. You and your preacher have committed serious sins of omission. I won't stand for this. I ... I...” She looked around, helpless-like, and turned from him.

“Where you going?”

“That's his grave over there?” She pointed to the fresh mound.

He nodded.

“I'm going to, how shall I put it? Pay my respects.” She stood up with her wedding bouquet and tossed him one last scowl.

Damn roses. That bouquet had cost his brother a small fortune.

“Hold up a minute,” he said to his wife, who halted and stared. “You forgot your bridal veil.”

As he rose, he leaned toward her, almost wishing he could kiss her again. He placed the veil back on her head, fluffed the edges around that lovely face. He couldn't help touching her cheek while he did so. His bride.

His fingers met her soft warm flesh, and she let them remain for a moment that was almost magical. Then both of them flinched at the same precise second.

* * * *

Minda could hardly breathe. The corset had suddenly gotten too rigid, and in the heat, her inexpressibles clung to her skin like wet paint. For an unseemly second, she imagined that warm calloused hand running across her body.

What on earth was happening? Her life in Gleesburg was over by choice, but this was not what she'd chosen in its stead. Not this man. And what had he, her
husband
, said about kids? Norman Dale had seen fit to mention only one, and a simple-minded one at that. Silly. At least she'd do what she could to prevent that horrid nickname.

Her husband? Shutting her eyes, she tried to hold the nightmare back. Mercy, she'd come to Paradise to have her dreams come true for a change.

Resolute, she nodded firm. Sadly, Norman Dale had passed on before his prime, but neither Haynes brother, living or dead, would get by with tricking her into raising more children. That was a thing of the past. She'd done her share.

As proud as she was of how well her younger sisters had turned out, now was
her
time. Of course, she'd agreed to tend Priscilla who, at fourteen, would be married off herself in just a few years’ time. And if she and Norman Dale had been blessed with children of their own, she would have raised them willingly, but out of love, not duty.

But Norman Dale wasn't here any more.

Likely she should feel some grief at his passing, but Norman Dale had been dishonest with her and deserved no tears. He and his scoundrel of a brother had made plans for the only life she would ever have without considering her thoughts and wishes. And now she had no money and nowhere else to go.

As she stomped over to Norman Dale's grave, she grumbled out an angry prayer and heard someone come up behind her. An idiotic disappointment simmered when it wasn't her husband.

Holding a baby in her arms, the yellow-haired young woman who'd decorated their chairs smiled shyly.

“I'm Gracey, the preacher's wife,” she said, eyes and voice soft. “What a tragedy, meeting Norman Dale the first time from beyond the grave.”

“Well, it appears he made other arrangements.” Minda tried to keep a sweet tone. This healthy, sun-kissed young woman seemed pleasant enough. Maybe they could be friends. Minda sent her a bright smile.

For a flash, Gracey's smile and golden hair reminded Minda of her youngest sister. She recalled the lovely Easter bonnet she'd made for Libby. The low-crowned straw “flat” topped with silk cornflowers and tied with blue satin would sit just as fine atop Gracey's braids, the wide brim an umbrella against the bright Nebraska sun. The poor dear needed a new hat badly.

“This is little Silly,” Gracey said, with shy but troubled eyes. “Jake—the reverend—is yonder, dishing up for the rest.”

Silly? Priscilla? Minda's smile vanished. “Little Silly” was an infant? So that's why she was content with a full belly and clean britches. And
the rest?
Her husband had mentioned other kids, too. Just how many more were there? Her eyes narrowed.

What other lies had Norman Dale told her?

“Now, sugarplum,” Gracey crooned, “it seems this nice lady's your new ma, and your uncle Brixton's your new pa.”

Brixton. So that was her scoundrel-husband's name. As furious as she was, she liked the silent ripple his name made against her tongue. But new ma? New pa? Things would need to change and quick.

The baby was beyond precious, but Minda didn't dare humiliate herself by inquiring about the rest. She'd seem a simpleton, expecting one nearly-grown girl when there was a slew of little ones underfoot. No one would insult a dead man by believing he'd lied to her.

“There's been a lot to think about on this day, Gracey,” Minda said instead.

“Truth to tell, Brix's a fine man to take you on.”

Minda harrumphed to herself and tossed the wedding bouquet on the grave. She caught the scent of her husband—Brixton—before she heard his footsteps. In spite of the heat, he smelled wonderful, clean and outdoorsy both.

He nodded at them. “Afternoon, Gracey. Miz Haynes, you sure look like you could use a long tall drink...”

“Why, how dare you, Mr. Haynes?” Minda said with an aggrieved sputter. “I need no such thing!”

“Of
lemonade
,” he finished.

She hoped the big trees hid her blush. “Of course.”

For a moment, Brixton Haynes stood tall as a tree and still as a pond like he had something more to say. Then Gracey thrust Priscilla in Brixton's stiff arms. He acted like the baby burned him, and Minda hid a smile.

The child wore a beautiful white linsey dress trimmed with tatted lace, pin tucks, and delicate satin ribbons. Her tiny black leather boots gleamed. Minda knew quality. It was indeed the proper outfit for the daughter of a successful farmer. About thirteen, fourteen months of age, she guessed, stifling new ire against the dead man.

This girl was supposed to be fourteen
years
old.

“Silly,” Gracey cooed, “Uncle Brix's your new pa.”

In the hot wind, tree branches rasped against each other like ripping silk. A meadowlark sang, but to Minda, it sounded like squawking. New pa? Minda snuck a peek at Brixton.

Her husband moved his face awkwardly from the searching fingers of the baby's left hand. Priscilla's dark eyes matched her uncle's, and curls as black as his tufted her little skull. It was a charming sight, until Minda reminded herself just how this man had tricked her.

Just then, Priscilla squirmed and stretched restlessly, knocking Brixton's big-brimmed black hat to the mercy of the wind.

“Damn!”

Gracey's eyes widened in horror, and little Silly's face crinkled with oncoming tears.

Instantly, Minda took the baby from him and soothed the chubby face into a bright pink smile. Priscilla laughed outright as she grabbed a lock of Minda's loosened hair.

Minda couldn't resist kissing the tiny hand, then turned to Brixton as he bent to retrieve his hat.

“Watch your mouth, Mr. Haynes. Even little ones have ears.”

“Don't you tell me what to do,” he growled, but conceded, “I do beg pardon, ladies.”

She tried to return the glower he gave her on his way back to standing upright, tried to ignore her confusion, the unsuitable attraction for a husband she hadn't chosen. At least he returned her scowl. She needed a firm reason to forget that gentle touch upon her cheek. Sighing, Minda wanted Gracey to leave. Then she and Brixton could discuss the outrageous situation in which they found themselves.

In which she found herself, that is. He'd plotted it all along, all the while blaming her for his brother's death.

His accusations pounded again in her mind and she frowned at the unfairness. In front of them, Gracey's shoes shifted under her pink calico skirts, somewhat awkwardly, like she didn't really want to leave. “Um ... Minda? Brix?”

The reverend's wife looked down at her toes for another moment.

“Yes, Gracey? What is it?” Minda said.

“Well, Brix, you always said you're no family man. And you two being newlyweds, well, it'd be hard taking on a baby right away. Jake and I, well, we'd like to take little Silly home. Raise her as our own.” She glanced at Minda, and just as quickly, looked away. Sadness softened her words. “Our baby girl, Ruthie, why, she became an angel last fall from that scarlet fever. We miss her something awful.”

Minda felt a stab in her heart as Gracey's eyes filled with tears.

“Just Silly?” Brixton said. “Not the others?”

“With our own three boys, we got no room for more than a baby, Brix. You know that already.” Gracey looked away. “Much as I love ‘em all, other folks will take ‘em off your hands. There's already talk.”

“I heard some talk, but it don't seem right, Grace. You know my brother would never stand for it.” Brixton straightened, taller than ever.

“Well, he's dead and gone. But you and Minda might as well think about it. Less things to worry about.”

“Children aren't things, Gracey,” Brixton said, his voice a growl, “and it won't happen.”

Without saying another word, Gracey grabbed little Priscilla from Minda's arms, held her tight, and ran off.

Take Priscilla from her siblings? An old pain filled Minda's heart. She had spent her girlhood keeping her sisters together. Whatever Minda had expected, it hadn't been the break-up of a family. She peered at her husband who stood grim and stalwart, his jaw clenched, staring at Norman Dale's grave. Not a family man? He'd come all the way home for a wedding? Come from where? Who and what was he?

He must have borrowed that poor-fitting coat. Any decent man possessed his own Sunday best. And that vest of many pockets. Hmm. He probably had a Peacemaker or other weapon hidden inside, and a flask of whiskey, too. She'd read a dime novel on the long train ride.

A bounty hunter? Or ... her eyes narrowed. Or worse, an outlaw. How could any feeling person leave a man like that in charge of innocent children?

Once again she heard her mama's dying request that Minda keep her sisters all together, under one roof, no matter what the cost. At not quite fourteen, she'd taken the commitment to heart. Of course it had been difficult, sometimes downright backbreaking, but she had learned first-hand what family meant.

But this wasn't her family, was it? Not if she'd been tricked into it.

“Who are the others, Brixton?” It was the first time she said his name aloud.

“Katie and Neddie-boy. And you can call me Brix. Little Paul's over there.” His voice slowed as he pointed near Norman Dale's grave. “Asleep in his ma's arms. Six years old he was. They both died from the scarlet fever last fall.” His gravel voice softened. “I best see to some gravestones now. My brother didn't get to it.”

Minda held her hand against her throbbing throat. Both parents dead, and a small brother, too. The surviving youngsters had suffered terrible loss, and their hurts seeped into her. The wind moved eerily through the cottonwoods.

“Your brother never mentioned them,” she said, lips stiff with shock. She grabbed handfuls of her white silken skirts to keep them from brushing into Norman Dale's dirt.

“Letter must have gone astray.” Her husband shrugged.

“He sent six letters, and I received and answered every one. He kept the children from me on purpose, didn't he? Why might he do that, Brixton?” Minda knew why, in her heart and in her brain. She'd made it clear she was done with child-rearing.

Brixton's eyebrows rose. “I claim you misunderstood him.”

“Balderdash. I can read just fine.”

“The kids are right over there.” He pointed toward the tables where Gracey Satterburg tended to them.

Minda's mouth dropped open. Norman Dale hadn't left a teenaged daughter to care for the little ones. His oldest—what was her name, Katie?—looked no more than ten. Raising younger siblings was an impossible task for such a little girl.

She closed her eyes, but it didn't matter. Inside her head, the faces of Norman Dale's children hung like a wall of portraits. Six helpless eyes watched while grown-ups ransacked their lives.