Lonesome Bride Read online

  His jaw tightened and his lips thinned into a grim line. Wordlessly, as if he were too disgusted to talk, he made a slight pushing gesture with his hands.

  As if he were shoving her away from him, she realized.

  Then he turned on his heel and strode toward the barn, out of her sight.

  For a moment, Caite allowed herself the support of the hand rail, but only a moment. There's one thing to be said for constant turmoil in one's life, she thought with grim humor. It got easier and easier to remain standing when she felt like falling down.

  "Caite? Are you ready to come back inside?” Sally stood framed in the doorway.

  "Yes, I am,” Caite stammered, flushing. How long had Sally been standing there? How much had she seen?

  "Where is Jed?"

  Caite waved vaguely in the direction of the barn before mounting the porch steps. “He went off that way."

  Sally's musical laughter filled the air. “I'm sure he'll be back when he smells your bread baking. I can hardly wait to taste it myself."

  Caite smiled somewhat wanly. “Well, I'd best get started with it, then, had I not?"

  Sally stepped aside to let Caite enter the house. “Are you all right, Caite?"

  "Of course I am.” Caite forced herself to laugh. “Jed was just telling me about the new mare he started breaking."

  As the two women headed through the front room and back the short hall to the kitchen, Caite decided Sally had not seen or heard any of the discussion with Jed. The other woman had seemed to accept Caite's lie without question, Caite was relieved to notice, and Sally did not question her any further.

  "Well, missy, we been waiting on you!” Albert called good-naturedly from the kitchen as Caite and Sally entered. “My belly's been growling and my mouth's all set for your mama's bread."

  It seemed like it had been years ago I promised Cooky to make Mother's recipe, Caite thought. Was it just this morning she had been sitting by the creek, waiting for Buck Peters to make her his wife? So much could change in just a few hours.

  "If I get started now,” she told Cooky with a smile, “it'll be done in plenty of time to serve with dinner."

  "It is glad I am,” Lorna put in from the sideboard, where she was tallying the household accounts. “I am so tired of Albert's biscuits, I am to be screaming!"

  She had to duck as one of those same biscuits came flying at her head. As Caite laughed with the others, she marveled she could be feeling so happy despite everything that had happened that day. She was more determined than ever not to let Jed Peters upset her any more.

  * * * *

  Love! Why did it always have to be love with these women? From the lowliest barmaid to the snobbiest high-falutin’ Miss from Pennsylvania, they one and all wanted the same thing.

  I tried love once, Jed thought sourly. He hadn't been very good at it. Sure, in bed and out, Trish had dutifully played the part of the devoted wife. But when had she ever said she loved him? He could have jumped through hoops of fire, and she would have just given him the same half-hearted smile. What he had felt for Patricia hadn't been the stuff that legends are made of or anything, but he had given her all he could. In return, he'd had the loneliest, coldest five years he could imagine. He wasn't about to head down that road again.

  Besides, he had meant every word he said to Caite. He was willing to settle down and make her his wife, give her children and a home. What more did she need? A declaration of love wouldn't change any of those things. It wouldn't make him treat her any differently. No, saying he loved her would only be the ring through his nose. There he'd be, the mighty bull out in the pasture, being led around by the snout by some woman!

  "We castrate bulls around here,” Jed muttered and kicked the dirt floor of the barn until dust clouds puffed around his ankles.

  More than anything, Jed was ready to settle down. He had his hundred and sixty acres of land, granted to him by Lincoln's Homestead Act of 1862. Lincoln's act required the landowner to live on the land he claimed for at least five years and make improvements upon it, notably, a house. The cabin he'd shared with Caitleen was his concession to Lincoln's rules.

  The land had lain fallow for the ten years he'd had it. Trish had not wanted to leave Heatherfield. So he had stayed, breeding his father's horses and chafing for the day when he could build his own home and have his own stable.

  He'd thought about moving out there himself a few times, but homesteading alone was more than tough—it was foolhardy. A man could lose his mind out there in the cold Montana winters with no one but himself for company. He needed a partner.

  Before meeting Caitleen, he hadn't exactly been thinking about another wife. Now he had met her the idea seemed perfect. He'd thought Caite seemed the type of woman who'd be willing to take a risk or two. He guessed he was wrong.

  Or was he? She'd said she didn't want to marry him, but she hadn't resisted when he'd kissed her. In fact, she'd gotten all warm and cozy with him, until the whole blasted conversation about love started.

  Love had to ruin everything, he thought grimly.

  CHAPTER 10

  The little room off the kitchen was furnished far more simply than Buck's room had been, but it was much closer to Caitleen's taste. The single window was large enough to provide ample light, facing south as it was, and the white-painted walls gave the room a light, airy feel she found extremely appealing.

  Her clothes, liberated from the trunk again, hung in the simple wardrobe. The trunk she had placed at the foot of the bed as a bench. A single bed in one corner was covered by a faded quilt that reminded her sharply of home.

  Caite sat at the tiny desk beneath the window, paper spread out before her and the inkstand uncapped and ready. She tapped the end of the pen against her teeth and thought about what to write. She wanted to let Gerda know she was all right, but without giving her too much information. Caite was still afraid the letter might fall into the wrong hands.

  Where to begin? She did not want to tell Gerda she was not going to be married after all. That might send Drake Hammond after her faster than gossip spread among old maids. Better to write vaguely just that the wedding had not yet taken place.

  Caite wrote carefully, forming the letters clearly enough so Maisie, the girl who sometimes helped in the kitchen at Serenity, would be able to read them. Maisie would most likely be the one to read the letter to Gerda, who could recognize her own name on paper but not much else.

  Caite signed her name at the bottom with a flourish. “That should do it."

  It would at least give Gerda some peace of mind. Should the letter fall into her father's hands, however, there was no guarantee he would not use it to taunt Hammond. The dandy then might insist on coming to claim her. The rivalry between her father and Desmond had gone on for so many years, she would be surprised if he gave up his chance to take his rival's daughter without a fight.

  It did not pay to be incautious. Until she decided what she was going to do with her life, she did not want any risk of her father or Hammond coming to Heatherfield to claim her. Caite was not certain how much the law would support her being gambled away like chattel, but she did not wish to find out.

  Caite sealed and addressed the envelope, then sat back and rubbed her eyes. She would send the letter with Shorty on his next trip to town. Right now, however, she still felt ill. If she had not promised Lorna to help with the wedding quilt for Buck and Sally, she would crawl right back into bed until tomorrow.

  I must've eaten something that disagreed with me, Caite thought. Nothing else could explain why she had so suddenly this morning been struck with such a bout of nausea. It had passed as soon as she had lost her breakfast, but she still felt tired.

  "Caitleen?” Lorna peeped around the doorjamb. “Are you ready for the helping of the quilt?"

  Caite managed a smile at Lorna's lilting voice. “Yes, Lorna. I've finished my letter. Do you think Shorty will post it for me the next time he goes to Staghorn?"

  "Why, certainly,