Joe's Wife. Cheryl St.John
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was ridiculous. Gus and Purdy and the Eaton brothers had the run of her home, with nary a thought to impropriety. But to meet his standards of decorum, she stepped outside. “What brings you?” she asked.
“I thought I’d pay a call and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“Good.”
“How is Celia?”
“She’s well, thank you.”
Niles’s wife was expecting a baby, but men and women didn’t speak of such delicate things.
“Harley spoke with me this week,” he said.
So that was why he’d come. Harley’d gone ahead with it.
“I can get you a sizable price for this land, Meg. There are investors who will snap it up in a minute.”
Her civility fell to the wayside. “Oh? And would they be among those select few Northerners who got rich off the war?”
Niles bristled. “The point is, Meg, you need the money. You can’t keep going without some help.”
“Well then, how about a loan until I get this place back on its feet?”
“You must know I can’t do that.”
He could probably do it out of his own pocket. He would have done it for Joe. The thought angered her. As Joe’s wife she’d had respect because he’d been respected. As his widow she had sympathy and little else. She’d known Niles her whole life, yet he wouldn’t consider an investment in her.
Exasperated, she turned and gazed across the expanse of dirt and grass to the corrals, where several horses stood outlined in the moonlight. “And you must know I can’t sell. You know what this place meant to Joe.”
“I do know,” he said quickly, and then added, “but Joe’s not here anymore.”
“And what a nice commission you could make off the sale of Joe’s ranch.” She didn’t bother to withhold the derision in her tone.
She turned back to look at him.
“You know you have to do it sooner or later,” he said. “Don’t be a foolish woman. Why not do it before you’ve sold everything that means anything to you?”
“The ranch is what means everything to me,” she replied. “And it’s worth any sacrifice.”
He stepped back and placed his smart, narrow-brimmed felt hat on his head. “All right. Do it your way. But you’ll be coming to me soon. And by then you’ll be in dire straits.”
“Well,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I’ll do everything else in my power first.”
“Good night, Meg.” He climbed up to the leather seat of his fancy buggy and guided the horse back toward town.
Meg folded her arms beneath her breasts and watched him disappear in the darkness. Her anger had only been a temporary disguise for hurt and fear, and as it dissipated, tears stung her eyes. She set her mouth in a firm line to keep the desperation at bay.
Movement caught her eye. Gus stood silhouetted in the doorway on the side of the barn where the men slept in roughly finished rooms. She waved, knowing he’d been checking on her visitor and her safety. He returned the wave and closed the door.
Exhausted, she entered the house, dipped her water and washed up in her tiny bedroom before donning her cotton gown, extinguishing the lamps and climbing into bed.
She’d thought about her situation every day and night since Mother Telford and Harley’s insistence. It wouldn’t improve. Without a man to take on much of the physical work, she couldn’t keep the place going. And the Telfords would keep trying to wear her down.
The more she’d thought about it, the more she’d resigned herself to the fact that a husband was exactly what she had to have. For the past several nights she’d gone over the limited possibilities. All the bachelors were too old or too young, except for three. Jed Wheeler ran one of the saloons, but just the thought of marrying him made her shudder. Besides, he wouldn’t know anything about ranching.
Colt Brickey was a year or two younger than she, but had come home from the war teched in the head. He could probably work, but she needed more than that—she needed someone who could help her make decisions.
The third and last was Tye Hatcher.
Still not husband material in society’s eyes, but the only prospect capable of working and planning. He limped, but that shouldn’t keep him from riding. If Purdy could do it at his age, surely Tye could. He’d done ranch work since he’d quit school to take care of his mother. He’d worked as a rep and helped with roundups, and from everything she’d seen, he seemed honest and hardworking.
Once she had narrowed her options down to him, the thought of actually carrying out her audacious plan gave her pause. What would he think of a woman so bold as to propose marriage? Did it matter?
If he said no, it was doubtful he’d tell the town of her foolish plan. And even if he told, the townspeople wouldn’t believe him. And if they did, what did she really care? Holding on to the ranch was all that mattered, and at this point, she didn’t have any choice.
Meg recognized the bleak emptiness of this bed where she’d lain alone for the past few years. For too short a time a man’s soft snore had accompanied the night. Now she lay awake listening to the sounds of the house and the wind along the timberline.
She was contemplating bringing a stranger to the ranch. To her home. To Joe’s bed. Plenty of women married men they didn’t know, she assured herself. Tye Hatcher had always been polite and respectful in her presence. He wasn’t bad looking. Not at all. It wouldn’t be like Joe, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
This was business, after all. Meg was a determined woman. She could bear a good many things to get what she wanted.
Tomorrow was Sunday. He didn’t attend church, but she’d heard talk that Tye often called on Reverend Baker in the afternoon. She would seek him out. And she would ask him then.
Sunday visits were a custom carried from the East. As a boy, Tye had seen families gather for Sunday meals and an afternoon of visiting and play, and always on the outskirts, he’d wondered what that was like. His mother had never been accepted among the respectable residents of Aspen Grove. She and Tye hadn’t even gone to church because of the rude treatment she received. But on Sunday afternoons she’d taken him to Reverend Baker’s, where she’d had someone who treated her kindly. Apparently it was acceptable for the preacher to receive her calls; he was, after all, responsible for her immortal soul.
But Tye never remembered any talk of saving his mother’s soul on those visits. He remembered only the tiny measure of acceptance and the pleasure that gave his mother, and he would be forever grateful to the preacher for that kindness.
The first time he’d run into the reverend upon his return, the man had greeted him warmly and extended an invitation to come by for pie and coffee. The preacher had been a widower for more than twenty years yet had the most well stocked pantry and cleanest house in the county, thanks to the dutiful parishioners.
As his mother had done, Tye always waited for the dinner hour to pass. Often the reverend accepted an invitation and returned midafternoon. Then Tye would wait for any “real” callers who might stop by to pay their respects. And then, when everyone had gone home to their families, he would call on Reverend Baker.
Today, as a late afternoon sun warmed the porch, they shared a peach cobbler Mrs. Matthews had dropped off and drank strong black coffee.
“Ah, nothing like a fresh pie and good coffee,” the preacher said, leaning back in the wicker chair and folding his hands across his belly. “And then a bit of man talk.”
With a grin, Tye pulled his tobacco from his pocket and deftly