Come Spring (20 page)

I am both tired and filthy, not to mention frightened, although my fear has lessened now that I have been in this man’s company for four days and he has yet to physically harm me. Not that I don’t think him capable of it, but I believe that somehow he has his own set of rules, a moral
code which does not allow for cruelty to females. At least I pray I am correct.

I am certain my family is frantic to ascertain my whereabouts. And, although I don’t wish them any undue suffering, I do pray that Kase will hurry and find me. All I know is that we are living in a miserable excuse for a cabin, somewhere in the mountains northwest of Cheyenne, Wyoming.

If only I had a change of clothing, I feel I might better handle this situation.

As I look around I can’t help but think of my mother and wonder how she was able to survive the years she existed in a sod house on the Iowa prairie. I try to imagine what it must have been like for her, an immigrant, virtually alone and lonely in her crude surroundings. How easy it was for me to picture her former life as a romantic adventure! I am now certain the reality of the situation was quite the opposite.

“How long have you been up?”

When Buck Scott’s voice cut into her reverie, Annika jumped, leaving a blob of ink at the end of her last sentence. She swung her long braid over her shoulder and glared at him. He was lying propped against the pillow of his huge bed, his arms crossed over the chest of the red overalls which he had stripped down to the night before. The rest of his length remained hidden beneath the covers.

“Unlike you, Mr. Scott, I don’t intend to sleep the day away like a hibernating bear. I’ve been up for some time.” She curled her stockinged feet up beneath the hems of her gowns.

“Did you start the coffee?”

“No.”

“Last night I said the first one up should start the coffee,” he reminded her.

“I have a feeling that’s exactly why you chose to sleep in.” She capped her traveling inkwell and, in lieu of a rag, tried to blot her stained fingers on the edge of the table.

He scratched his head. “You’re staining my table.”

“How can you tell? It’s already a mess.”

He pushed the covers back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Annika averted her eyes and kept them on the journal lying open in front of her. Her face flamed.

“It’s the only table I have, Miss Storm, even if it isn’t what you’re used to. Now, what about that coffee?”

She heard the swish of his pants when he picked them up off the floor. He was standing not two feet from her as he pulled them on.

“Well?”

She answered without looking in his direction. “I couldn’t remember if you said to boil the water before adding the coffee or after.”

His voice was muffled as he knelt down and fished around beneath the bed for his moccasins. “I said to fill the pot with water and bring it to a boil. While it’s boiling you grind the coffee beans. Then you add the coffee and one of those broken eggshells in the can beside the grinder.”

“How much coffee?”

“One spoonful per cup and one for the pot. I put in nine, ten if I want it stronger. After the coffee is the color you want it, you have to trickle in some cold water to settle the grounds to the bottom.”

“I couldn’t remember all that.”

“I don’t think you wanted to. Didn’t you say you were trained as a teacher, Miss Storm?”

“In a weak moment I might have admitted it, yes.”

“Then I think you can probably remember something as easy as how to make coffee. Shoot, Baby could do it in a year or two.”

“But can you wait that long for a cup, Mr. Scott?”

“I don’t intend to. You’re going to do it.”

“Or what?”

“Or we’ll go without today.”

Annika almost agreed, but the thought of giving up the heady smell of the rich brew and the chance to hold the steaming cup between hands that had been impossible to warm was something she hated to miss, even if it meant giving in to him.

She stood up and began to fill the coffeepot with freezing water from the barrel by the door. “You need a decent stove.”

Buck ignored her and shrugged into his flannel shirt. As he worked the buttons closed, he thought about the peace and quiet he had enjoyed before he brought Annika Storm home. As sorry as he was that he had mistaken her for Alice Soams, he was still glad that he had not ended up with a wife. He could just imagine the complaints she would have about the cabin, the lack of amenities, the isolation. He saw as much in Annika’s eyes every time she looked around. A wife’s every sentence would start with “Do you know what you need?” He would have to put up with the complaining or make endless trips to Cheyenne to cart the items she demanded up the mountain.

By the time he was completely dressed he was certain he would never marry. A wife would want things he couldn’t give, and yet, as he watched Annika filling the pot with water, he realized that even her nightgown and the borrowed nightshirt could not disguise her all-too-feminine curves. There was no denying his physical attraction to her; even though he was trying like hell not to show it, he found himself watching her far too often and much too closely. Everything about her intrigued him, from the way she brushed her hair to the way she walked across the room. There was one thing a wife could give him that he hadn’t had in a very long time.

Unaware of his scrutiny as she ground the coffee, Annika spoke to him over her shoulder. “Why do you have to hunt anyway? I would think that in the winter there’s nothing out there to catch.”

“Trap.” He walked to the workbench and picked up the enamelware mugs and two spoons. “Beaver, wolf, rabbit, whatever wanders into my traps are welcome because the pelts are prime in winter. They’re best when there’s an
r
in the name of the month. September, October, November, De—”

“I know the names of the months,” she snapped. Annika folded her arms across her midsection while she waited for the water to boil. “Why don’t you move to Cheyenne? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about Baby or about stealing a wife. You could simply hire a housekeeper.”

Buck paused in the midst of measuring out cornmeal for the morning mush. It was the first time she had asked him anything remotely personal in days. He watched her curiously as she bent to peer into the coffeepot she’d positioned as near the fire as she could.

“And do what?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Anything.”

“Store work? Clean out stables? Smithing?” He shook his head. “That’s not for me. Why should I work for anyone when I can live free and be my own boss?”

She was studying him intently now, watching him as he added boiling water from the blackened kettle to the pot of meal. “Why do you think that’s all you’re capable of?”

He set the pot down with more force than he intended and frowned. When he met her gaze he could see that she was not chiding him but seriously asking for an explanation. “Look at me, Miss Storm. I’m a buffalo man, a skinner. That’s all I know; it’s what I do well. I make enough money to live off it. The problem is that there aren’t any buffalo anymore—so I do what I can and I still take in a good wage for the pelts I cure and deliver. Besides, I’m not educated for fancy work. And I hate towns.”

She looked about her—at the humble interior of his cabin, at the crude furnishings and the dirt floor—and wondered what he considered enough to live on. “My brother’s a rancher now. I’m sure he hires extra hands, and he’s trying to raise buffalo. Knowing them as you do—”

“I know how to kill them, Miss Storm. Besides, can you really see Kase Storm welcoming me with open arms?” He laughed aloud at the thought. “I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t put a bullet through me before I can explain that this whole thing was a mistake.”

Crumbling an eggshell, she mixed it with the coffee grounds and measured them into the pot. He was right, she thought. No matter what she might suggest, she couldn’t quite imagine Kase offering Buck Scott a job, not after the worry the man had put him through. She knew her brother’s temper wouldn’t allow it and could almost hear the two of them snarling at each other. Nor could she imagine Buck Scott living in the confines of a city the size of Cheyenne, or having to limit himself to the rigid rules and regulations of Society. The idea of the big man dressed in a nappy tweed suit nearly made her laugh aloud. But she was a firm believer that a man could become anything he wanted. She decided then and there to start thinking about what Buck Scott might do in Cheyenne.

She glanced up and found him staring at her again. “What are you looking at?”

He started stirring the mush. “I was wondering why you were even wasting time figuring out how I could provide for Baby in town. Seems to me after what I’ve done you wouldn’t care what happens to us.”

Annika wondered the same thing but searched for an answer that would appease him without admitting the truth. “Baby ought to have a decent home.”

“And this isn’t?” His blue eyes challenged hers.

“If you could provide for all her needs, why did you write to Alice Soams?”

Unwilling to admit that he was regretting his plan to marry Alice Soams, or anyone else for that matter, he tried to divert her attention to another topic. “Why don’t you check the coffee?”

When Annika turned away, Buck thought about what she said and hated to admit that she was probably right. The only way he could keep Baby if he didn’t find a woman to live with him would be to move closer to town and find someone who could care for her. But what about him? What could he do in Cheyenne or anyplace else? He thought of a line from an old rhyme, “Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.” What talent did he have besides hunting, skinning, and butchering? It was all he’d known since he was fourteen, that and mixing up the home cures and remedies he’d learned from his mother.

As he spooned out two bowls of mush he thought that perhaps he’d make someone a better wife than a woman as ill-equipped to take care of herself as Annika Storm. He watched as she carefully poured cold water into the coffeepot spout to settle the grounds. When she straightened and found him staring, her face flamed, then her brows dipped into a frown. “If you’ll turn around, I’ll dress.”

“You’ve got two nightshirts on as it is. What’s to see?”

“It’s not my fault that I haven’t anything decent to wear. If I had the contents of just one of my trunks I might be able to keep warm, but as it is, I’m just trying to make do.”

When she planted her hands on her hips, he knew he’d riled her again.

“Don’t you think I’d like something clean to change into? I can’t believe I have to wear these same clothes until you get me out of here. They’re already filthy, I’m filthy, and I—”

“I know, I know. You hate it here.”

She crossed her arms and nodded. “Exactly.”

“Why don’t you take a bath?”

Stunned, she eyed him suspiciously, not daring to hope for such a luxury. “Where?”

“Right here in front of the fire. I’ll bring the washtub in after breakfast.”

“And what will you do while I’m bathing?”

“I’ll ignore you. What’s the fuss? I had two sisters.”

“And I have a brother, but you’re not him.”

“No. I’m not.”

“So where will you go while I bathe?”

He was about to say no place, then reneged. “I’ll go check on my traps. The storm’s passed by now.”

“Good. I’ll lock the door while you’re gone.”

“The door doesn’t have a lock. Anyone who wants in is welcome. Nothing here worth taking,” he said low.

Annika couldn’t help but look over at Baby still asleep in the big bed.

Guessing the train of her thoughts he added, “A cabin door’s always open in an out-of-the-way place.”

“Not when I bathe,” she assured him.

B
UCK
pulled the hood of his coat close about his head and cursed loud and long since there was no one within earshot except the horse that stood beside him and the pack mule tied behind it. It was the fourth morning that he’d been ousted from his home so that Annika Storm could bathe and he regretted ever having given in to her demand the first time. Daily she reminded him to stay away as long as possible, and he usually had no problem obliging her while he used the time to check on the beaver traps he set along Blue Creek. But today it was colder than an eskimo’s grave and he’d never set traps so many mornings in a row.

He unpacked his mule and started walking, encumbered like a beast of burden with his rifle slung over his shoulder and a packboard on his back in case he had to transport a heavy load. He hefted the trap chain, swung it over his shoulder, and wished he hadn’t taken to shaving every morning. His face was cold, damn cold. Why should it matter to him in the least what Annika Storm thought of him anyway? She’d never even mentioned his having shaved at all, so he didn’t see why he’d taken to doing it every day. But he had.

As he slogged through the snow beside Blue Creek, hunting for signs of a beaver slide along the bank, he mentally went over the provisions he had stored away in and around the cabin. Yesterday he had shown them to Annika, had carefully pointed out the barrel of apples layered in dry sand, the bucket full of eggs packed in salt, the canned fruits and vegetables that lined the shelves beneath the workbench. She had refused to eat any meat since the rabbit skinning, but he showed her the small smokehouse behind the cabin anyway. Today he hoped to come across some game that he could add to the larder.

Even as uncomfortably cold as he was, Buck couldn’t help but smile when he thought of the exchange the barrel of apples had inspired. He’d shown them to Annika and had added, “I was kind of hoping you’d volunteer to make an apple pie.”

“I was kind of hoping I would be at my brother’s home by now.”

Unable to resist baiting her he added, “I should have guessed by the way you make coffee that pie is out of the question.”

“You should know by now that even if I did know how to bake pies I wouldn’t do it for you.”

Ducking beneath a low branch, he shook his head and smiled to himself. She was a stubborn cuss, he’d grant her that. He recalled how he’d almost laughed during the exchange, but he didn’t want to let her know he was enjoying her company. The woman would no doubt use the knowledge to get him to do something else he didn’t really want to do. Hell, he was already stranded outside every morning and shaving every day, even though a good growth of beard would keep him warmer.