The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (28 page)

He grumbled to himself over the delay, but agreed to her request and went to the barn in search of Crowfoot. He was nowhere to be found. Hawke supposed the boy had taken off for Three Elk in spite of the need for him here. In light of the way the young man had been treated at Winterhawke of late, Hawke couldn't really blame him for leaving, and thought he probably would have done the same thing under the circumstances. The next time Crowfoot stopped by, Hawke promised himself, he'd take him aside and do a little fence-mending.

As he finished the final chore of the night and headed for the house at last, it occurred to Hawke that a good start with the boy might be to let him have his pick of the remaining three-year-old mustangs. He was old enough for his own horse, and more than capable of taking care of one. Feeling good about the decision, Hawke removed his hat and vest as he climbed the steps to the back porch, hung the items on a large brass hook near the door, and walked into the kitchen. Surprising him, a mélange of aromas assailed his senses; slowly roasted beef heavily scented with onions, spices, and other unidentified vegetables, along with the contrasting odor of something sweet. Had Lacey cooked the berries they'd picked the other day? he wondered. If so, what in hell could she have made out of them?

Cutting off his thoughts, she stepped into the room from the back porch, carrying a pickle jar filled with fragrant bluebells. "Oh, I didn't hear you come in, husband. Have you finished your chores for the day?"

He nodded slowly, suspicious of her brightly innocent expression and general crisp clean appearance. She wore the same white blouse and navy skirt as always, but they were freshly ironed, and she'd even pinned a small cluster of bluebells to her collar. More unusual than all that, not so much as one spiral of russet hair was out of place, a feat all on its own.

"What have you been up to?" he asked bluntly.

Lacey looked at him as if to say, "Who, me?" then inclined her pretty head toward the stove. A large kettle gently simmered on the back burner, the low heat pushing intermittent bubbles to the surface where they exploded with a tantalizing fragrance.

Hawke was instantly hungry—and confused. Since the day Lacey had nearly burned the house down, he'd done all the cooking, and she'd been extremely grateful for the concession. "What's that on the stove?" he asked, "and who cooked it?"

"'Tis a pot of Irish stew I made using Kate's recipe, but I had to use beef in place of lamb. I think it didn't matter, though—does it smell good to you?"

Although it was unnecessary, as his mouth had been watering since he stepped into the room, he sniffed the air. "It smells wonderful. Did you just say that you fired up the stove and cooked the stew?"

"Well, a leprechaun didn't come along to do the chore for me, if that is what you're suggesting, sir." She deposited the flowers at the center of the table—rather, at the center of a sheet she'd fashioned into a tablecloth—then turned back to him with a sweet smile. "I did cook the meal, but I must confess that I did not build the fire in the stove. I had a wee bit of help on that score." Hurrying back toward the living room, Lacey poked her head around the corner. "'Tis time we were taking our meal. Will you join us please?"

It wasn't until then that Hawke noticed she'd set three places at the small table and added the rocking chair from upstairs to the two in the kitchen. "Who in the—"

Crowfoot, or rather a new version of the young man, walked into the room then, and the sentence died in Hawke's throat. The boy was, in a word,
clean
! His hair had been freshly washed, trimmed, and plaited into neat braids which hung down his back. Even more surprising, his hands and face, maybe his entire body, had been scrubbed clean, and he wore the new set of buckskins Hawke had been trying to get him into ever since the first day of spring. As the boy limped over to the table, Hawke couldn't help but notice that he still wore a ball of burlap around his crippled foot, but it, too, looked as fresh and clean as the rest of him.

Crowfoot took a seat in one of the old kitchen chairs, leaving Hawke to choose between the other and the rocker. "We eat now." He grinned, an expression as rare as a bath. "Good surprise you think?"

"A hell of a good surprise." Hawke found himself grinning back, then he glanced at Lacey and gave her a nod of admiration. Not only had he and Caleb been unable to get the boy to wash, but the kid had always been adamantly opposed to joining them at mealtime unless they were huddled around a campfire. How had Lacey managed the impossible?

Stunned, Hawke took the seat opposite the boy, leaving the rocker for his wife, and then he took a cautious glance at her. She was busy dishing up the stew and looking so confident, if he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn she'd been doing it all her life.

"And how did your business with the cavalry go?" she asked, the jingle of spurs accompanying her as she approached the table with two steaming bowls. After depositing the food in front of her "men," Lacey returned to the stove.

"Ah, it went better than I expected, another surprise I guess, in this day of strange goings on."

"A surprise? I thought you were expecting the cavalry to come get their horses. What is so odd about that?"

Waiting until she'd returned to the table with a basket of biscuits and her own bowl of stew before he answered, Hawke's news fairly burst from him. "While the quartermaster was here, he took the time to look over my two-year-olds. He was as impressed with their quality as he was by the way I've broken the horses he already bought. He decided on the spot to draw up a contract with me personally for all fifty head. There's no question now that come spring, I'll finally own this place lock, stock, and barrel."

Although seated at the table, Crowfoot did not yet possess the manners this arrangement demanded. He banged his spoon against the crockery bowl several times over and leapt up and down in his chair. "Good, good! This is very good."

"You bet it is," Hawke agreed, resisting the urge to correct the boy. "And just to make the deal even sweeter, the cavalry is going to pay me directly instead of going through Braddock Savings and Loan."

Again the boy reacted joyously, but Lacey was less enthusiastic. "I do not understand the part about the loan company. Why not deal with them if they be the ones you'd be owing the money to?"

"Because figures have a way of getting... confused at the savings and loan companies in town." And Braddock owned them all, which reminded Hawke of the only area in which he hadn't been completely truthful with Lacey. He had not told her that William Braddock was his uncle, nor would he. It was one thing ignoring the taunts and sneers of strangers over his half-breed status, but quite another to endure them from blood kin. That kind of shame he would never share with Lacey. Not even if his life depended on it.

"Just trust me when I say that it's best for the deal to be done this way, and definitely cause for celebration. Come spring, we'll not only own Winterhawke free and clear, but we'll have a good sum leftover to spend on ourselves for a change."

Wanting desperately to share in her husband's joy, Lacey glanced around the kitchen, then put in a bid for a piece of the good tidings. "What you're saying is, that come spring we might be able to buy a few more items of furniture so we don't have to drag the chairs from room to room?"

Furnishing the house had never really been a priority with Hawke. He laughed at the oversight, then conceded. "I'd be happy to buy you some new chairs, Mrs. Winterhawke. Maybe even a couch to put in front of the fireplace. Would you like that?"

"Aye. Almost as much as knowing that you like the supper I cooked for you."

After that strong hint, the three of them fell to the meal which turned out to be very decent considering Lacey's previous lack of training in the kitchen. Hawke had baked the biscuits the night before, and while they weren't terribly fresh, if they were sopped in the stew it didn't really matter and they made a perfect complement to the meal. Surprisingly enough, most of the conversation as they ate came from Crowfoot. His main reason for visiting Winterhawke was to inform Hawke that Caleb's leg had healed well enough for him to plan Three Elk's much-delayed cattle branding, an event that was to take place in three days.

Lacey had never heard of such a thing. Once Hawke explained how each rancher burned his own unique brand into the hide of the animals to keep them from being stolen, she shivered from head to toe. "I don't think the cattle can like that very much. I think I shall stay here and practice my cooking whilst you men do your terrible deeds."

"Nope, sorry," said Hawke as he shoved his empty bowl away. "Branding is as much a party as anything. The neighbors all come to help out since it takes a lot of muscle to get the job done, and afterwards, it's Caleb's responsibility to feed everyone. You don't have to come outside to watch the branding if you don't want to, but I expect Kate's going to need all the help she can get in the kitchen."

The thought of seeing her friend again after the weeks they'd spent apart made the branding sound a lot more appealing. "Aye," she said brightly. "I expect she could use my help. In that case, I'll go, but I do not think you'll be seeing these blue eyes observing you that day, sir."

Hawke knew he'd be seeing them anyway, if not in person, the way he did in his dreams every night. A rush of warmth spread throughout him as pushed away from the table. "Thanks for the great meal, Irish. It really was good."

"Not so fast." She bid him stay in his seat by holding up her hands. "I have one more surprise, the best one that I saved for last."

He patted his belly. "I hope it isn't more food. I couldn't eat another bite."

"Oh, I expect you'll be finding room for a wee bit of this," she said smugly as she rose from the table. Lacey crossed the room to the counter attached to the sink, then reached behind the flour canister where she'd hidden her final offering. After removing the scrap of toweling she'd used to help conceal it, she turned toward the table and made a grand presentation of her hard-won dessert.

"'Tis a berry pie I baked just for you."

She started for Hawke, her movements dramatic and regal, and set the offering down on the table in front of his nose as if she'd presented him a king's ransom in gold. His gaze incredulous, he stared at the pie, not knowing what to do or say next. The top crust looked as if it had been manhandled—there was really no other word for it—the whole thing pieced together so crookedly, he had to wonder if she'd gone outside during a high wind to put it together. It also looked as if she'd probably cut the required vents, but they were unnecessary since the edges of her patchwork "quilt" had come undone during the baking process, creating many more vents than were needed. The finished product, bleeding purple from its many ragged wounds, could have passed as the loser in a knife fight.

"Damn that looks good," Hawke said with a straight face.

Lacey beamed, handing him the knife. "Go on, then. Cut yourself as big a piece as you can eat."

Hawke brought the edge of the knife down on the crust, thinking a saw would have made the job easier, but managed to extract a good portion of pie and drop it into his empty supper bowl. Thinking he could have made Crowfoot a sturdy pair of boots out of the crust, Hawke stabbed at the pie with his fork and ate the entire portion anyway. He did so with a smile on his face, no less.

When he'd finished every last pebble—crumb really didn't describe the leavings of Lacey's crust—and pushed away from the table, this time the grimace of discomfort Hawke made as he patted his belly was real. "Thanks again for all your efforts, Irish. That was the best damned pie to ever come out of that stove."

"Really?" she said, as surprised as she was pleased.

Since Hawke was the original owner of the stove, he knew a pie had never been baked it in before. So he wasn't lying when he confirmed his remarks. "Absolutely. The very best."

Overjoyed, Lacey clasped her hands together. "In that case, sir, you can expect another little surprise tomorrow night after supper." She pushed the berry pie toward him. "Go on now, be sure to save a piece or two for Crowfoot, but eat the rest of it all up. I'll be needing the empty pan first thing in the morning."

What cannot be had is just what suits.

—An old Irish saying

Chapter 15