Bride By Arrangement. Karen Kirst
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Wolf blinked.
“Hope it’s nothing serious.” Leaning his weight on the pitchfork, he stared out the double opening to the cabin framed by gently rolling plains. “I thought my scars would disgust them, but they didn’t seem to notice.”
He’d expected Constance to recoil as so many others had upon first seeing him. The first time it occurred had been days after his doctor proclaimed him on the mend and suspended the lead paint treatments. The coverings had been removed, and he’d been allowed a mirror to see his new appearance. Just as he’d been confronted with the monster he’d become, a wife or sister of one of the patients had passed by, taken one look at him and clapped her hand over her mouth. Her horror had seared itself onto his brain.
He’d thrown the mirror to the floor, smashing it to bits, and sunk into a soul-deep melancholy that had lasted for months. If not for Daniel and Will, he might never have left the sick ward.
Striding to the corner stall, he checked on his dairy cow. “Hey, Winnie.”
Twisting her head, she gazed at him with molten brown eyes.
“I see Timothy was here this morning to give you relief.”
He hadn’t had to hire help until getting pinned sheriff. Daniel had suggested his employee’s adolescent son, and Noah had taken his advice. It appeared the boy had done a decent job, but he’d check the springhouse to see if the milk had been stored properly.
The pangs in his stomach became audible. Pushing off the ledge, he left the barn and headed straight for the henhouse. His plans to dine at the Cowboy Café after settling the Millers at the hotel having been thwarted, he’d have to fix something fast and easy. Scrambled eggs and fried ham wouldn’t take but a few minutes. There wasn’t time to make biscuits, but he was sure the blue-eyed girl—Jean, was it?—would like flapjacks.
The thought of little girls and flapjacks had him thinking about his sisters. The three of them had argued over the best way to eat them. Lilly had preferred them smothered with butter and jam. Cara insisted on molasses. The youngest, Elizabeth, wouldn’t eat them unless there were sausage links rolled up inside.
In the henhouse, he tried to push aside thoughts of his family and failed. Lilly, Cara and Elizabeth were no longer little girls. They were in their early twenties now, likely married with children. His parents would’ve aged considerably. Were they well? Struggling due to the South’s defeat? He couldn’t help wondering how his family had fared during the long years of fighting.
He could remedy that by writing them, but that last spectacular row with his father prevented him. That, and the fact he didn’t wish them to know that he was a shadow of his former self, that his inner self was as twisted by the war as his outer appearance.
Quickly gathering the eggs into a basket he left hanging inside the henhouse door, he chose a container of milk from the springhouse and hurried to the cabin. He could imagine the widow’s disdain over this simple meal. Oh, she wouldn’t let it show. No doubt she’d had lessons on how to hide her true feelings. But the image of the refined lady tucking into a five-high stack of syrup-smothered flapjacks put a smirk on his face.
When he entered, Constance emerged from the bedroom, her expression shadowed.
“Abigail is asleep, and Jane is amusing herself with a picture book.” Her skirts swayed and swished as she moved to meet him beside the counter he’d crafted. “Since you won’t allow me to assist in the meal preparation, may I ready the place settings?”
Her formal speech matched her appearance. He indicated the wall behind him. “The plates and utensils are in the hutch.”
She worked without speaking as he lit the fire inside the stove box and mixed the flapjack batter. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed her frequent glances and wondered what was going on inside her head. He had little experience with females outside his family. He’d joined the army before he’d had the chance to properly court any of the local girls. His nurses had been kind and proficient, but they hadn’t had the time or desire to socialize.
Having company in his home felt odd. Daniel and Will stopped by occasionally. Mostly they gave him space and waited for him to come to them.
Noah snagged the kettle from the row of shelves above the dry sink. “Do you drink coffee?”
“I never acquired a taste for it. Do you have any tea?”
“Tea’s for ladies and little girls.”
One flyaway brow arched, and he suspected she’d like to blast him with a tongue-lashing. Her composure fully intact, she said, “Milk will suffice.” Approaching the counter, she laid her ringed hand on the container. The gaudy jewels sparkled. “Do you mind if I pour some for Jane and myself?”
“Be my guest.”
Turning away, he procured a knife and, placing the ham slab on the plate, began to carve thick slices. He was acutely aware of her position in the room as she moved about. By the time he had the food ready to dish up, his skin prickled with tension and his appetite was long gone.
“Where would you like for us to sit?” She stood framed by the window, Jane—not Jean—beside her.
“Doesn’t matter.” He hated feeling flustered in his own home. The sooner this meal was over and he could make his escape, the better.
Constance chose the seat opposite his. The girl sat on his right.
Noah scooted his mug closer and cleared his throat. “I normally say grace in my head.”
“Momma always offers the mealtime prayer.” Jane looked from her mother to him.
Constance grimaced. “This isn’t our home, sweetheart.”
“He’s gonna be our pa soon enough. You said so.”
Jane’s large, cornflower blue eyes pinned him to his chair. This was a fine barrel of pickles. “Let’s get on with it,” he groused at the woman across from him. “I’ve got an errand to tend to.”
An errand he wasn’t about to put off until tomorrow.
* * *
During the ride into town, Noah nursed his temper, the torturous meal replaying in his mind. His self-consciousness about his scar had trumped all else. Seated directly across from him, the widow had had a clear view. There’d been nowhere to hide. So he’d ducked his head, tucked into his meal and done his best to ignore his uninvited guests.
Undulating fields gave way to the town proper. As his homestead was situated west of Cowboy Creek, he didn’t have to traverse the main thoroughfare to reach Will and Tomasina’s place. He traveled up Third Street. A handful of clapboard houses were interspersed between the businesses. Not as crowded in this section, but there was still a fair amount of activity as men went about their daily routines.
On his right, a reed-thin man wearing an apron was in his shop’s entrance sweeping out debris. “Howdy, Sheriff!”
Seconds passed before Noah realized the man was addressing him. You’re the sheriff now, remember? Folks normally didn’t initiate conversation. They treated him with wary respect.
He belatedly touched a finger to his brim. The man’s gaze slipped to Wolf trailing behind and, smile slipping, he turned and reentered his shop.
Similar exchanges were repeated as he proceeded along the dusty street. By the time Will’s manor came into view, Noah’s hand was tired from all the waving. He hadn’t pursued this position. He’d been asked to fill Quincy Davis’s spot after that man’s untimely death. Some said it was because he was one of the founding members, and they trusted him to do right by the townsfolk. Noah suspected it had more to do with the wild tales of his battlefield exploits that circulated about town. He didn’t consider himself a hero. Sure, he’d had to work hard to dispel the stigma of his Southern roots, to prove he was committed to the Union’s cause, but he hadn’t done anything to warrant the label