The Wrong Cowboy. Lauri Robinson
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both canteens and stashed them beneath the seat.
They’d be putting on some miles before anyone got another drink. He wasn’t being mean, wouldn’t let anyone die of thirst, he was just putting his foot down.
It was a good ten minutes before everyone was settled in the back of the wagon and she’d once again stationed her bottom on the seat beside him. Stafford didn’t bother waiting for her signal, just gave out a low whoop that sent the horses forward.
A short time later, when the little guy with the lisp said he was hungry, Stafford merely shook his head.
She on the other hand, said consolingly, “I’m sure we’ll stop for lunch soon, Weston.” Flipping her tone sour as fast as a cook turns flapjacks on a grill, she added, “Won’t we, Mr. Burleson?”
“Nope,” Stafford answered.
“Yes, we will,” she insisted. “Children have small stomachs, and—”
“And Jackson is probably a good five miles ahead of us.” Pointing out the obvious, in case she’d forgotten, he added, “He has all the food with him. You were the one who said it wouldn’t fit in this wagon.”
Marie had to press a hand to her lips to contain her gasp. The wagon bed was so small, barely enough room for each child to sit comfortably, she’d had to insist all other items be placed in the larger freight wagon. Surly even someone as vile as Mr. Burleson could understand that. Though the freight wagon, once a dot on the horizon, was gone.
“Why did you let him get so far ahead of us?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” Mr. Burleson answered with a clipped tone. “You did.” He gave an indifferent nod over one shoulder. “Small bladders.”
Pinching her lips together didn’t help much. Neither did searching her brain full of nursemaid training. None of it had prepared her for this. Her education focused on what to do inside the home of her charges. Improvise. She had to find something to take the child’s mind off his hunger, and then she’d be able to work out what to do about it. Turning she reached for one of the canteens. “Have some water for now, dear.”
Neither container was where she’d left it. “Who has the canteens?” she asked, looking mainly at Terrance. Though she tried not to single him out, he was usually the culprit.
The boy shook his head. “I don’t have them.”
“I do.”
A nerve ticked in her jaw as she turned to look at Mr. Burleson. “Why?”
“Because I’ll say who can have a drink, and when.”
“The children—”
“Won’t starve or die of thirst before we catch up with Jackson.”
That would not do. “Mr. Burleson—”
Despite the heat of the sun, his cold stare had her vocal chords freezing up.
“No one is getting a drink of water, Miss Hall,” he growled. “And we aren’t stopping until I say.” He twisted his neck a bit more, glancing into the wagon bed. “You kids pull out some of those books she made you pack and start reading.”
Six sets of startled eyes—for the children had never been spoken to with such harshness—instantly turned to their bags. In a matter of seconds, they were all reading. Or, at least, holding books in their hands with their heads hung over the pages.
She shouldn’t feel this thankful to see them all sitting quietly, but in truth they hadn’t sat still for more than five minutes since leaving town. If someone hadn’t been complaining they didn’t have enough room, someone else was hot, or thirsty, or had to go. Yet she was their nursemaid, not Stafford Burleson, and he had no right to speak to them so.
Under her breath, so the children wouldn’t hear, Marie started, “Mr. Burleson, I cannot have—”
His glare came from the corner of one eye as he once again interrupted, “Don’t you have a book you can read, too?”
Floored, she huffed before finding her voice. “I—”
“I,” he broke in, “need some peace and quiet.”
She hadn’t been spoken to that way, either, not in a very long time. Besides the shivers racing up her arms, her throat locked tight. Peace and quiet. Blinking back the tears threatening to fall in a way they hadn’t done for years, Marie turned her gaze to the horses and focused on the harnesses going up and down, trying to forget. Or just not let the memories come forward. She’d been sent back to the orphanage because of those words. That had been years ago, she told herself, and could not happen now. Could never happen again.
It took effort, lots of it, and by the time everything was suppressed, Marie was breathing hard and deep, as if she’d just run several miles. She’d been here before, this emotionally exhausted, but not in a very long time.
“Here.”
Marie blinked at the canteen before her chin.
“Take a drink,” he said.
Her hands shook, but the tepid water flowing down her burning throat was such relief Marie took several swallows before worrying about the few droplets that dribbled down her neck. Her breathing was returning to normal, and by the time she’d replaced the cap and wiped away the droplets, she had much more control.
“Better?”
“Yes,” she managed, handing back the canteen. She couldn’t bring herself to glance his way, not even as his gaze blistered the side of her face. “Thank you.”
“They’ll be fine,” he said.
His voice was hushed, soft and even kindhearted, which threatened the control she’d mustered. “I’m sure you’re right,” she answered as firmly as possible. He was right. It took more than a few hours before a person’s stomach ached. A day or more until the pain became so strong that cramps set in. Those memories weren’t easily repressed, but they did remind her she was glad to have been sent back to the orphanage all those years ago.
“Look at that,” he said, one hand stretched out, gesturing toward the land covered with brown grass that went on for miles.
She’d been shocked at first, by the landscape so different from that of the city. Barely a green blade could be found, but she’d grown accustomed to it since arriving in Huron. That’s how life was, a series of changes one eventually got used to.
Marie also understood he was trying to redirect her thoughts, and she let him. No good ever came from dwelling on the past.
“It’s a deer,” he continued, “and two fawns.”
It wasn’t until the animal turned and leaped that Marie noticed two smaller ones bounding through the waist-high grass. “How did you see them?” she asked. “The grass is so tall.”
“Practice, I guess.”
“They’re so graceful,” she commented, watching until the deer disappeared. “Do they always run like that? Almost as if they’re flying?”
“Yes, deer are pretty swift animals. Haven’t you seen any before?”
“Just pictures.”
He seemed different, quiet, thoughtful, and the moments ticking by threatened to set her back to thinking, so she added, “There aren’t any deer in the city.”
“The city being Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“You lived there your entire life?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Never left?”
“Not until boarding the train for Huron.” Marie bit her tongue then, hoping she hadn’t just provided him with an opening to start asking questions