The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (11 page)

From what Lacey knew of those creatures, they went around pestering folks in caps, coats, and buckled shoes. Even
far darrig
, the mischievous elf, cut .a dapper little figure as he ran amuck in his red costume playing jokes on children who did not obey their parents. But this wee person wore buckskin trousers similar to Hawke's and a fringed shirt to match. And he didn't giggle or dance about the way she would have expected of a fairy, but stood there frozen and mute instead. Like a child from the madhouse might do. If not a fairy, then what could it be?

She smiled and the creature seemed to relax a little. Then, surprising her, it leaned forward, tentatively reached out to her, and touched her cheek with the pad of its finger. It was all Lacey could do not to step back or cry out. Sensing something special about what appeared to be a young boy, she forced herself to stand still, and allowed him to examine her. He wiped a drop of moisture from her skin—a teardrop she'd shed as she ran to the barn—and made a careful study of it. As he marveled over the dew from her eyes, Lacey slowly came to recognize a certain manner about him. He wore a haunted look, one she'd seen often on the faces of children newly admitted to the hospital—and sometimes, in her own mirror. Her heart told her this was no banshee or fairy come to bring her bad luck; this was but another lost soul.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you," she said, keeping her voice soft and lilting. "I did not know you were here."

The boy's uneasy gaze remained on his fingertip and her dried-up teardrop. Fairly sure she knew how to reach him, Lacey pointed to his other hand where he held a gleaming band of metal tied up with what looked like a couple of thin leather straps. "Are you working for Mr. Hawke, then? What do you have there?"

This produced the first hint of communication from the boy. Without meeting her gaze, he shrugged and nodded, at the same time leaving Lacey to make what she could of his answer."I can see that you do not care to talk much," she went on, "and that is quite all right with me seeing that I never spoke a word for years on end during my early life. But would you mind seeing your way to answer me the one thing? Are you capable of speech, lad?"

Lifting his wary gaze, he slowly nodded.

"Well, then, I expect we'll be the best of friends! If there be one thing Kathleen Lacey O'Carroll can understand, 'tis the urge to stay silent!" The boy cocked his head and took a step toward her. Smiling at him again, she let him know exactly why she was there. "I'm working for Mr. Hawke, too, but I'm having a time of it!" She held up her sticky hands. "I was trying to make pancakes for his breakfast earlier, but I could not do it right. His kitchen looks every bit the mess my hands do, and all he's got to eat for the trouble, is a few lumps of charcoal."

The boy laughed, then held up the item he'd been polishing. "My work—spurs."

"Spurs, you say?" Determined to keep hint talking, Lacey thought back to a story she once read about the American West. "A while ago I heard the tale of a small man from Texas who did not have the respect of his fellow cowboys. He went 'round with his face dragging the clover until he bought himself a pair of grand silver, spurs. After that, when he went about wearing them on his boots, 'twas like the finest of charms for the lad. The cowboy felt so tall, so brave, and so fearless, that whenever he wore those spurs, the other men cleared a path for him. Are these the items you'd be workin' on, then?"

The boy's dirty sienna face broke into a wide grin, and he slowly nodded. "Hawke's spurs."

"Aye, then perhaps those are the charms I need to keep our dear Mr. Hawke from making his fill of complaints about my work." Lacey reached out and touched the edge of the silver for luck. "I can not seem to keep him in a fine temper when I'm around. Perhaps if I were to tie a pair of these to my apron."

As if speaking his name had conjured him up, Hawke came into the barn and called to her. "Lacey? Are you in here?"

She turned her head as if to answer him, but the boy whispered, "No, lady, no!" Then he put a finger against her mouth.

"Lacey?" Hawke called again. "If you're in here, say so. I'm done hollering at you, if that's what has you worried, and sorry that I hollered before to boot." After a few moments of silence, his retreating footsteps met their ears, and then all was quiet again.

She turned back to the boy. "Why could we no answer him?"

"Spurs." He pointed up at the variety of leather goods and halters hanging from the wall. "You wear."

Lacey glanced up to find another pair of spurs, noting that they were of a far fancier design than the pair the boy held in his hands. The ones he'd been polishing had a horseshoe-shaped band of silver which fit around the heel of a boot. The actual spur—in this case, a protruding tube of metal one-inch long and blunted at the end—was attached to the center of the band at the back. The set on the wall appeared to have a silver wheel fashioned of what looked like shamrocks in place of this single spur.

"May I take them down?" she asked. The boy nodded rapidly, so Lacey stood on tiptoes and lifted them over their peg. The spurs indeed were shaped like small, pointy clovers, and when tapped by her finger, spun 'round and 'round, leaving a metallic little jingle in their wake. "They're like a good luck sign by the nine orders of angels!" she said with awe. "You think 'twould be all right if I were to try them on?"

Grinning to himself, the boy dropped to his knees, reached beneath the hem of her skirt, and captured one of Lacey's feet. When he saw her thin leather slipper, he frowned. Cautioning her to remain still, he jumped up, opened a small cupboard behind him, and pulled out a pair of boots.

'Turning back to Lacey, he said, "These Crowfoot's. You try."

"Crowfoot? What is that?"

He beat his own small chest. "I Crowfoot."

Pleased by her progress with the boy, she accepted the offered boots. "Thank you, Mr. Crowfoot."

Lacey sat on a nearby stool to make the switch, and as she pulled off her own shoes, noticed that one of the boots Crowfoot had given her was stiff and new, the other, crumpled, worn, and a little misshapen. Automatically glancing down at the boy's feet, she saw that on his foot he wore a fairly new boot, but that the left was wrapped in a large ball of hemp.

Sensing that it would be wiser to go slow with her new little friend, she decided not to comment or ask about his injury just yet, but quietly went about switching her footgear instead: Surprisingly enough, the boots did fit her rattler well, and were far more suitable for working on the ranch than her delicate slippers. Lacey offered her newly outfitted feet to Crowfoot, and he made a grand display of attaching the lovely "shamrock" spurs to her new boots.

"Try now," the boy said, encouraging her to stand up.

Lacey took a few hesitant steps, then got bolder. The more aggressive her stride, the louder the spurs jingled, and after a moment, she did feel as if she were ten feet tall, invincible, and all powerful. She even danced a noisy little jig for Crowfoot's benefit, then finally dropped back down on the stool.

"Now I'm knowing how that cowboy felt," she said, out of breath. "If only I had it in my power to wear these spurs in the house around Mr. Hawke! They have me feeling like there's nothing I can not do! Even to make pancakes!"

Crowfoot waved her away. "Go now."

Giving him what she thought he wanted—his privacy—she leaned over to remove the spurs and boots, but a grime-streaked hand reached out and stopped her.

"Go now. Keep spurs."

"You can not mean it," she said with surprise. "'Twill anger Mr. Hawke something awful if he finds me wearing his spurs, 'twill it no?"

The boy nodded, but placed a finger across his lips and grinned. Then he put the same finger across her mouth and grinned even wider.

"Forgettin' to tell the man seems like a very good idea, but he's sure to notice they've been taken from their peg."

Crowfoot shook his head and pointed to the spurs he'd been polishing. "Not hurt horse." Then he pointed to Lacey's feet. "Hurt horse, only for show."

"He does not wear them?" The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Then you're sayin' that if I were to tiptoe carefully to keep the spurs from jingling when Hawke's around, he might not ever know that I've borrowed them... would that be right?"

His grin wider than ever, Crowfoot stuck out his hand, took hold of hers, and shook it. "Right," he repeated. "No talk about Crowfoot, too. Right?"

Seeing a kindred spirit in this boy who couldn't have been more than ten or twelve years old, Lacey grinned back at him. "Right—and may I melt off the earth like snow if I should slip and make any mention of you."

Moments later, it was with a confidence that she'd never known before that Lacey made her way back to the ranch house and boldly stepped into the kitchen. Hawke was nowhere to be seen, so she went to work cleaning up the mess she'd made earlier, then tidied up the one he'd made cooking a pile of sausage patties while she'd been outside in the barn.

He checked on her only once after that, and then surprised her by starting the journey back to Three Elk Ranch at least an hour earlier than he had before—in fact, he hadn't even given her enough time to duck back into the barn and remove the spurs. On top of that, Hawke seemed to be in a "mood" throughout the long drive, speaking to her but not really saying much. Oh, he said he forgave her for breaking his knife, and seemed to understand that she was new to cooking pancakes, but that little "connection" she'd felt between them after the foal was born had vanished. Tomorrow, she thought with renewed confidence, she'd return to Winterhawke armed with some of Kate's recipes and the luck o' the spurs to help her put them together right. Hawke would warm up to her
and
the idea of keeping her on once she fed his belly right. Lacey just knew it.

When the wagon finally pulled up in front of Caleb's wood-frame home, Hawke planted his foot on the brake, but didn't set it. "By the way—I won't be back to pick you up for a couple of days. I have to ride the fences and check on the horses out in the far pastures. Often, I wind up spending a night or two away from the ranch." That was a lie of course, especially during foaling season, but one he told to give him the break he needed from this confusing, confounded woman. He took his foot off the brake. "Be sure to say hello to Caleb for me. I've got to get back now."

"Oh, of course," she said, hiding her disappointment. "Then I'll just be wishing you the luck of God and the prosperity of Patrick that all goes well with your fences." With that, Lacey helped herself off the rig, careful not to jingle her spurs, then collected her basket and headed for the house.

Females,
Hawke grumbled to himself as he drove away,
delicate ladies like Miss Irish in particular, had no place on a working ranch like Winterhawke.
She was nothing but trouble.

Nothing but a distraction with hair that smelled of cherry blossoms, eyes that sparkled both blue and gold, and a sweet lilting voice that went on and on with talk of marriage. The more he thought about it, the more Hawke was convinced there could be only one reason a woman like that might be willing to wed a half-breed like him; she had to be on the run. From the law, or even from a husband.

It didn't matter to Hawke in the least which it might be, because he had no intention of keeping her around long enough to find out. He sure as hell didn't have a need for a wife. He could cook better than this female, tend to the cows and chickens in less than half the time it took her to even find the eggs, and although he hadn't tested the little Irish beauty with a needle and thread yet, it wouldn't have surprised him to learn that he could out mend her as well—and John Winterhawke, Jr. was the worst seamstress in all of Wyoming Territory!

If he had one brain in his head, Hawke decided, he wouldn't even go back to Three Elk Ranch after her again. Sure he'd promised his best friend that he'd give her a full two-week try, but if Caleb knew how badly she'd turned his life upside down in just the few days she'd been at the ranch, the old man would have to release him from that promise—wouldn't he?

Hawke had assumed it would be a simple thing when he made the agreement, even a nice little convenience to have someone around to do the cooking and the chores while he went about his business with the horses. He hadn't figured on the smell of Lacey's hair or the sound of her voice, and he sure never thought she'd worm her way into his horse business the way she had. If all that wasn't shock enough for any man, because of her, he frequently found himself questioning the life he'd built for himself, and even wondering if he shouldn't reevaluate his goals! .

Hawke had
always
known what he was about before. He was meant to be alone, and never expected to have much by way of company except for himself. He was an outsider, an undesirable, a position in white society he'd understood practically since birth. Even during those long winters trapping with Caleb, he'd known he'd eventually wind up alone; and he was fully prepared for that eventuality. What Hawke
wasn't
prepared for, was life with a woman underfoot.

Now that he'd tested Lacey these few days, he didn't know what to think. For reasons he still hadn't figured out, this O'Carroll woman was busy working her way into his blood, making him feel things he didn't want to feel, and it the damnedest moments—like in the stall over the birth of Taffy's foal, Or worse yet, while she was milking Hazel. The spark of desire she'd ignited in him then was startling and something he'd thought he'd never feel for any white woman; a lust best left unfelt. If he were to suffer another day of such yearnings, it could prove disastrous. Ten more could be... Hawke didn't dare think beyond another day.