Short-Straw Bride (17 page)

Crockett's face relaxed.

“I just thought, maybe I should, you know, court her a bit first.” Travis kicked at the edge of the rug with the toe of his boot. He'd rather she be a willing partner than simply a dutiful one.

“When do you plan to court her, exactly? While we rebuild the barn? Or maybe out among the cattle while we search out new places for them to forage, since half our fodder went up in smoke? Thanks to Mitchell, we have more work on our hands and less time to accomplish it with winter already knocking on the door.” Crockett looked to the ceiling and blew out a breath before turning back to his brother. “I don't know what the right answer is, Travis. I've even less experience than you when it comes to women. Talk to Meredith. Decide together what is best for the two of you. And pray for the Lord's guidance.”

“Travis?” Meredith's soft voice gave him a start.

He spun around. Had she overheard any of their conversation? He prayed not and schooled his features as best he could to keep his chagrin hidden.

“I thought our guests might like to eat those sweet rolls now.” She spoke with hesitation, and her eyes had difficulty holding his, but her smile reached inside him and undid the knots in his gut.

Travis offered her his arm and called out to the rest of the room. “My wife informs me that it's time to eat. And I, for one, am eager to sample my bride's cooking.”

“It takes a brave man to marry a woman without proof of her ability to keep him from starvation, Archer,” the parson said on a chuckle as he bustled forward.

“Says the man in the greatest hurry to get to the kitchen.”

Meredith giggled at his jest, and Travis smiled. He slipped his hand over hers where it rested on his forearm and enjoyed the feel of his mother's ring beneath her glove.

“I said
you
were brave, lad. Not me. I've tasted Miss Meredith's baked goods and know precisely what quality of treat waits for me in the other room. And I plan to snatch the largest roll.” He broke into a bouncy jog as if afraid someone would beat him to the prize. The room erupted in laughter.

Emboldened by the man's high spirits, Travis leaned down and whispered in Meredith's ear. “If they taste half as sweet as the one who baked them, they'll be delicious indeed.”

“Travis,” she chastened in low voice, her lovely cheeks matching her cousin's dress.

He grinned unrepentantly and urged her forward.

He was going to enjoy this courting business.

M
eredith winced as she straightened from the wash basket and lifted one of Travis's shirts to the line. Laundry day had always made her lower back throb with all the bending and heavy lifting required, but as she surveyed the neat rows of male clothing, sheets, and table linens flapping in the chilled air, a proud smile curved her lips.

These were her family's things. Her
husband's
things. Amazing how that simple fact took the drudgery out of the chore.

Smiling to herself, she tossed the shirt over the line for a moment, then pushed her palms into the small of her back and turned her face up toward the sun as she stretched. The sound of a door shutting brought her head around.

Jim clomped down the back steps, his stocky build making his stride heavier than Travis's loose-limbed gait. His hair was a shade lighter than her husband's, but his eyes were similar, only they didn't have the intriguing touch of green she saw in Travis's.

Meredith raised a hand in greeting as he walked down the clothesline. The taciturn man favored her with a lift of his chin but not much else. He was a bit of a curmudgeon, but she didn't let it bother her since he acted the same way around his brothers. The only one he didn't act that way with was Cassie. But Cassie had that effect on men. She could charm a rock into floating on water with one of her smiles.

“I've got some stew simmering for supper,” Meredith called out as he passed. He stopped and turned, but instead of answering her, he grabbed one of the trouser legs from the line and held it to his nose.

Was he . . .
sniffing
it?

He released it with a grunt, one that sounded rather like the ones her father used to make when he'd find the answer he sought in one of his research books. Then he glanced up and briefly met her gaze.

“Stew needs salt.” And with no further commentary, he strode on to his shed.

Meredith didn't know whether to be offended at his opinion of her cooking or pleased that he'd actually spoken to her.

Turning back to her task, she pulled a clothespin from her apron pocket and fastened one shoulder of Travis's plaid flannel shirt, the one he had loaned her, to the line. As she worked to pin the other side, a ray of sunlight glinted off the gold band on her left hand. Meredith paused to admire it.

A married woman. Her. Meredith Hayes.

No
, she corrected,
Meredith Archer.

Her smile widened as she reached into the basket at her feet and retrieved her nightdress. A sigh escaped her as she shook out the wet, wadded cotton—the virginal white fabric a reminder that she was not yet a wife in all respects, only a bride. She forcefully flicked her wrists, snapping the gown into its full length.

She'd spent her wedding night alone.

Oh, it was out of consideration for her feelings. Travis had explained all that. And in her mind she understood his kindness and even appreciated the time he was giving her to truly get to know him before their relationship became more intimate. But in her heart? Well, deep down his consideration felt a lot like rejection.

Had he not felt the pulse-stopping current she had when their lips met during the ceremony? She guessed not, since he seemed in no hurry to repeat the experience. Travis hadn't kissed her once since the wedding three days ago.

She'd waited twelve years for that kiss, and now that she'd had a taste, three days without one felt like an eternity. Maybe Travis was the one who needed time. Meredith tilted her head as she pondered that idea. Perhaps he'd suggested they wait to consummate their marriage because
he
needed time to adjust. It wouldn't be surprising, really. Her uncle had practically forced the man to the altar. Meredith let out a sigh. She supposed she'd have to be patient.

At least Travis didn't seem adverse to her touch. His hand had a tendency to brush hers when they passed food around the supper table. And when they'd shared the sofa yesterday during the worship service the Archer brothers conducted in their parlor on Sundays, Travis had held the hymnal and sat close enough to her that she could feel the length of his leg whenever she leaned to the side to get a clearer view of the page.

The Lord probably didn't appreciate her feigning nearsightedness in order to repeatedly lean into her husband when she should've been concentrating on the meaning behind the hymn she was singing. It was no doubt her shameful behavior that prompted his divine hand to intervene in the song selection. When Neill accidentally announced the wrong song number, he decided to lead the unplanned hymn anyway. After three verses of “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” Meredith's vision miraculously improved.

She reached for another garment, the green calico she'd had to scrub three times on the washboard, thanks to all the soot stains. When she straightened, the tune from that convicting hymn found its way to her lips. As she hummed the lilting melody, she recommitted her priorities. God first. Husband second. Yet when the words of the refrain ran through her mind, they brought with them recollections of a verse from James.
“Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you.”
Meredith couldn't help wondering if such a strategy would work on husbands, as well.

Two shots fired in close succession rent the air. Meredith startled and dropped the clothespin she'd just extracted from her pocket. Then she remembered the sound was her husband's version of a doorbell and ordered her pulse to settle.

“One of these days I'm going to convince Travis to get rid of that awful sign,” Meredith muttered as her hand closed around another wooden pin.

Just yesterday, Crockett had preached a fine lesson on the parable of the Good Samaritan. He'd kept looking at her with those twinkling eyes of his, leaving her to wonder if he saw her in the role of the Samaritan, performing a good deed in warning Travis of Mitchell's attack, or if he'd cast her in the role of the poor traveler who'd ended up half dead upon the road. Either way, Jesus clearly told the story to teach his followers to love their neighbors through acts of kindness and charity. How exactly did Travis think he and his brothers would fulfill this calling if they closed themselves off from anyone who might be considered a neighbor?

That sign had to go.

“Meredith?” Travis called out to her as his long strides ate up the distance between the shed and the trees that supported her wash line. “I need you to go into the house.”

“I only have a few things left to hang. It'll just take a min—”

“Now, Meredith. Do as I say.” The hardness in his voice surprised her, and the firm set of his jaw made it clear he expected her to jump to his bidding.

She
had
vowed to obey her husband, but she'd made no promise to jump like a scared rabbit every time he took to ordering her around.

Meredith lifted her chin. “Why must I go into the house, Travis?”

“Because,” he gritted out, “there might be a threat, and I want to ensure that you're safe.”

“What kind of threat?”

Travis yanked off his hat and swatted his thigh with it. “Confound it, Meri. Will you just do as I ask?” He slapped the abused hat back on his head, then took her by the arm and pushed her toward the back steps. “I don't know what kind of threat, but I don't take chances. For all we know, Mitchell could have sent more men to convince me to sell.”

“Or my uncle could have stopped by for a visit.” Meredith didn't resist his forced guidance. His grip wasn't rough, just insistent. But she meant to make it clear that she didn't appreciate his high-handed tactics.

When they got to the back porch, he released her. “I know you haven't been here long, Meredith, but you're an Archer now, and you've got to learn how Archers do things. We always expect the worst. It keeps us alive. And when someone gives an order, you don't question it, you follow it. Explanations take time away from setting up our defense, and that leaves us vulnerable. Trust me to do what's right for you, Meri. It's for your own protection.”

She frowned at him, letting him know she wasn't too pleased with his methods, but dutifully nodded her agreement. “All right.”

Travis clapped her upper arm in a movement probably meant to convey his satisfaction over her compliance, but the hard lines of his face never softened. She would have preferred a smile. She'd have to make do with the brotherly thud on the arm, though, for he was already striding away from her, heading to the corral, where his mount waited.

“One of these days you're going to have to learn that the whole world isn't out to get you,” she said softly to his retreating back, unsure if he heard her or not, even more unsure if she wanted him to hear. “You're keeping out more friends than foes with that gate, Travis.” This last observation she whispered to herself.

She'd follow Travis's instructions and trust him to protect her, but she'd also follow the directives the Lord had placed on her heart. The Archers might be experts when it came to defense, but they were sadly lacking in their execution of hospitality.

Meredith marched through the bathing room and into the kitchen. After stoking up the fire in the stove, she took out a mixing bowl and scooped out three large portions of flour from the bin. She sprinkled a pinch of salt into the bowl, then cut in enough lard and cold water to make a dough. Taking the rolling pin from the drawer, she quickly rolled out the crust, not caring what shape resulted from her hasty efforts. Instead of reaching for a pie pan, she selected a large baking sheet from the cupboard and greased it. She cut the dough into strips, laid them in the pan, and dusted them with the leftover cinnamon-sugar mixture she had reserved after making the sweet rolls. While the crisps baked, she tidied the kitchen, then bustled back to her room to tidy herself.

If their guest proved not to be foe, as she suspected, the brave soul would be showered with neighborly hospitality. It was time the Archers were known for something other than seclusion.

Travis charged through the trees on Bexar's back, left hand on the reins, right hand on the butt of his pistol. Catching a shadowy glimpse of a wagon, he slowed the chestnut's pace and steered him off the path to take cover in a thicket of young pines. Crockett must have heard his approach, for the call of a white-winged dove floated on the breeze. White-winged doves rarely nested this far from the Rio Grande Valley, so when Joseph Archer taught his three older boys to imitate the call, they immediately turned it into a game of secret communication. Later, when they were on their own, it became an essential tool of stealth, allowing them to communicate to one another without being seen.

Taking his hand from his pistol, he patted Bexar's neck and waited for the second call that would signal all was well. When it came, the tightness in his chest lessened, and he drew in a deep breath. Strangers on his land made him tense at the best of times, but now that he had a wife to protect, fear for her safety intensified the usual concern that poured through him every time shots echoed from the road. At least he knew it wasn't one of Mitchell's agents. Crockett never would've admitted a wagon through the gate if he didn't know the driver.

Travis cupped his fingers around his mouth and returned Crockett's call. When the wagon drew abreast of his position, he urged Bexar forward with a touch of his heels and added his escort.

“Travis, my boy!” the bewhiskered driver boomed. “Good to see ya. I wondered where you were hidin'.”

“I'd hate to grow predictable on you after all these years, Winston.” Travis grinned at his father's old friend, the only man with a free pass onto Archer land.

“Shoot, that'd take all the fun out of it. Coming to see you boys is about the only excitement I get nowadays.” He reached under his coat and scratched a spot on his chest with the three fingers left to him on his right hand. “Jim got my cabinets ready?”

“Yep. Finished the fourth one a couple weeks back.”

Early on, the Archer boys had traded livestock for supplies—a cow or a hog, whichever they could best spare, in exchange for three months worth of flour, cornmeal, lard, coffee, sugar, and other necessities, like garden seeds, tools, and medicines. But when Jim started dabbling in woodworking and turned out to have a true talent for carpentry, Seth Winston quickly renegotiated their standing arrangement. They could keep their animals if Jim would fashion pieces Winston could sell to the local farmers' and ranchers' wives in his shop. Winston's general store and post office, along with a saloon and a church that doubled as the local schoolhouse, were the only buildings in the nearby tiny settlement known as Beaver Valley, but having the store situated on the market road between Palestine and Athens provided a place for the locals to congregate and therefore a steady trickle of customers. Customers who apparently appreciated rustic oak and pine furnishings.

“Can't wait to see 'em. Pansy Elmore's been badgerin' me somethin' fierce about that open cupboard I promised her. You know how antsy them women can get.” Winston slanted a glance at Travis and let out a cackle. “No, I reckon you don't, do you?”