Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (19 page)

Brody crept out of the door sometime later and sat next to him, reaching to hold Lucy’s hand. “Some people hurt Mama real bad, didn’t they, Pa?” Her voice quavered but she was stalwart in her determination to sit with her mother.

Alex came out and cast looks of horror at Lucy as he coaxed Brody back into the cabin.

Ambrose’s voice was sharper than he intended, but he didn’t want his son looking at her that way. “Your mama’s soakin’ wet, Alex. Bring me a dry blanket.” He was ashamed to think his son’s look might mirror his own.

It wasn’t until he undressed her, removing the sweat-soaked chemise, that he saw the knife work. Nothing in his previous touching explorations had prepared him for what he saw. Deep, vicious cuts closed with tiny stitches traversing her body from the left collarbone, across her breast, down her right thigh.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Lucy, what did they do to you?” Ambrose cried silent tears for his young wife who’d been tortured, calling out to him for help and he’d failed to hear.

When Lucy woke, she was back at the ranch in her bed and it was full daylight outside. She smiled, stretching sleepily, remembering how Brody and she had enjoyed the hot sulfur spring under the moonlight.

Surprised she’d slept so late in the morning and anticipating the need to play catch-up, she rolled out of the cocoon of comfort eager to resume her usual chores. Lucy dressed quickly, but when she would have strapped on her knife and put her gun in her pocket, her weapons were missing, including the carbine that she’d kept by her side on the trail.

She shrugged and went downstairs to the kitchen. Even though it was midmorning, Alex loitered by the back door and her husband stood with a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. She gathered up the skillet and a slab of bacon and carried them to the stove.

“I expect you’re waiting for me to wake up and fix breakfast. I’m sorry. I haven’t slept that sound for three years. Ambrose, where are my guns and my knife?”

The pleasant morning went downhill from there. Alex spoke first. “We had to take them away. We were afraid you’d hurt yourself or one of us.”

“What did I do?” Lucy looked at Ambrose for the answer.

He finished his coffee as though considering his words, but Brody bustled to her side and patted Lucy’s arm. “You had a scary dream, Mama. It’ll be all right.”

Lucy turned back to the stove, trying to remain nonchalant while her insides roiled. For three years she’d had horrible nightmares filled with faceless demons but she’d never been a threat to Roberta, although Lucy’s screams had brought her partner awake more than once. Her dreams since returning to the Double-Q had been of an erotic nature—passionate couplings between her and Quincy.

Ambrose cleared his throat and said, “Alex, you and Brody go finish the chores and give us a moment alone.”

They left and Ambrose crossed his arms in a determined fashion. “I’ll not be giving those weapons back, Luce. And you’ll not be leaving. We decided in Wichita we were staying together, and we are.”

She layered bacon in the skillet with her fork as she poked at wisps of memories floating in her mind.
Do I even want to remember?

“Well, is someone going to tell me what I did?”

“You don’t remember at all?” Ambrose studied her face, his expression somber.

“No, I don’t, but it must have been something bad because you’re all walking on eggshells this morning. Tell me.”

When he told her about the knife, Lucy sat on a chair, ignoring the bacon that needed to be turned.

Ambrose lifted the skillet off the fire and poured himself another cup of coffee before saying matter-of-factly, “I saw your scars.”

”I guess we don’t have any secrets now.” She held his gaze, trying to read his thoughts.

“You don’t need your guns and knives here, sweetheart. You’re home and safe.”

“I want what’s mine. If you’re afraid I’ll shoot one of you or slit your throats while you sleep, I’ll leave. But I won’t be without my protection,” she told him grimly.

Lucy went out the back door to the garden, leaving him by himself with his plans to protect her. She dug in the rich soil of the garden the rest of the morning, ignoring the comings and goings of the family. It was a good distraction whacking at the weeds and tearing their roots from the ground.

Ambrose drifted by often, finally lingering next to the garden where he watched Lucy use the sharp spade chopping and hoeing. “Weapons can be fashioned from anything, Mr. Quince. I won’t be without nor will I argue about it.”

It wasn’t the weapons on her mind though.
He carries on about how much he wants me. Well, now he’s seen it all—scars, nightmares and scary flaws.
Sweat poured off her as she attacked the overgrown rows in the garden. “It was a stupid idea thinking we could get on with things,” she muttered, not looking at him.

He walked away, leaving her massacring the weeds and talking to herself. When he came back out of the house, he handed her a cup of water. She’d just taken a sip when he said, “I moved my shirts and pants back into our bedroom.”

Lucy swallowed carefully. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“The clothes are staying, I’m staying and so are you.” There was no give in his voice and Lucy didn’t even consider arguing. Tension she’d not recognized eased inside her knowing that he didn’t find her repugnant now.

She stayed in the garden all morning, her disquiet peeling away under the watchful eyes of her family. Alex pointed out weeds she’d missed, kicking at them with the toe of his boot and making her laugh before he said, “Pa and I will be working close to the ranch house ’til the cowhands get back from Wichita. You and Brody are safe with us.”

She worked all day thinking about the approaching darkness that would bring her and Ambrose together in their marriage bed. But later, when she slipped into her nightgown and took her place, he crawled into the other side and, brushing a chaste kiss across her forehead, said, “Good night, sweetheart.”

Her anticipation turned to humiliation as she realized he was no longer interested in furthering their sensual dance. She tossed and turned, more than once rubbing against his shoulder or leg ’til he turned his back and moved farther away to the edge of the mattress on his side.

* * * * *

It was the same every night. She tried to hide her chagrin in the following days, diving into the ranch work. When Hamilton drove the wagon into the ranch yard at the end of the week and carried a recovering Roberta into the house and up to the spare bedroom Ambrose had been using, Lucy understood her husband’s move had been necessity, not desire.

Of course he’d known Hamilton would be arriving soon. She was surprised at the bitter turn her thoughts took and the disappointment she felt knowing that Ambrose hadn’t come to her bed by choice. Her feelings toward the man who named himself her protector were so entangled she tried to avoid thinking about him.

Looking fragile and feminine in a fancy robe and a matching scarf cradling her arm, Roberta languished in bed. By the end of the first afternoon, it was clear she was in her element, settling in as if she were a robin nesting.

When she finally took a tour of the house, she flattered and warned at the same time. “My, this is surely a nice spread, Quincy. You need to take care that some woman doesn’t swoop down and steal your man.”

Lucy ignored her jealous prickles of unease and changed the subject. “My real name is Lucy. I’d prefer that you call me that, Roberta.” Roberta’s light, frothy laughter floated in the air and she cocked her head to the side, much like the bird their place was named for. That reminded Lucy to ask about the status of the restaurant.

“What are you going to do about the Robin’s Nest while you’re recuperating?”

Roberta’s vague, “Smiley will see to it. There’s not much business these days,” was a long way from her Wichita assertion that business was doing fine without the regular cook. Lucy let that pass and returned to the kitchen.

Drovers who’d been on the cattle drive, most of them again broke, trickled back from Wichita. Lucy considered it a sorry truth that a cowboy and his money were soon parted. But they were good men and Quincy put them on the Double-Q payroll as permanent ranch hands.

When Ambrose asked Lucy to help Cookie fix up a big welcome back meal, she jumped at the chance and got started on a batch of pies. She left the giant slabs of beef for the bunkhouse cook, who’d made a miraculous recovery from his pre-cattle drive injuries.

After the welcome back meal, Lucy baked cookies twice a week and sent Alex with the full basket to the bunkhouse. Inevitably, when the cookies were gone, a bunkhouse representative made a trip to the kitchen door and held out the empty basket saying, “Me and the boys want to say thank you, Miz Quince.”

Lucy cooked and baked and Roberta flirted. When she targeted Ambrose with her smiles, it bothered Lucy. But most of her eye-batting was aimed at Hamilton. She’d evidently abandoned her first assessment of him being scary and was in hot pursuit. If Hamilton felt interest, he didn’t indicate it, instead complimenting Lucy at unexpected times on the work she did at the ranch, which had her knowing things were really out of kilter.

Brody also remained free of Roberta’s charm, staying at Lucy’s side most of her waking moments. Even when Roberta tried to lure her into chatting about hairstyles and fashion, a topic that Brody had previously shown interest in, the eight-year-old remained aloof.

When Roberta felt well enough to leave her bed completely, Brody was assigned the task of seeing to her needs. Lucy felt as though she had abandoned the child in a polecat’s den but it had been by Ambrose’s order so she kept her opinion to herself.

On one of her trips from the kitchen, Lucy passed by the front room where the portraits of Ambrose and her younger self were hung and heard the murmur of Roberta’s voice.

“My goodness, your father is a handsome man, and your mama certainly once knew how to make the most of her looks. Such a shame what happened to her. It just ruined her sense of style.”

Lucy was more interested in Brody’s sweet defense of her than Roberta’s remarks. “Mama is still a beautiful woman and don’t you say otherwise, Miss Roberta.”

Roberta made the evening meal her time to hold court, teasing Alex, who blushed and grinned under her light chidings, casting flirtatious glances at Hamilton, and always encouraging Ambrose to talk about the ranch and his plans for the Double-Q.

Lucy had forgotten so much about being a woman that she didn’t know how to take part in the conversations, so retreated to the kitchen. She spent most of each meal morosely staring at dirty dishes, feeling like an outsider.

As for sharing a bed with Ambrose, after the first awkward night when he’d shucked down to his long johns and crawled between the sheets, rolling away to sleep with his back turned to her, the routine became usual. Her nervous anticipation about resuming their marital relations seemed ludicrous in retrospect.

* * * * *

They were in the second week of Roberta’s visit when Lucy’s temper began to fray. The summer days were giving way to fall and a whole new area of work had developed. Brody and Lucy salvaged enough vegetables from the garden to do a fair amount of canning, adding to the meals Lucy fixed each day, the men’s clothes that she’d taken in to darn and patch, and the house she cleaned.

Roberta watched from the fainting couch or a chair in the kitchen, moving from room to room as Lucy marched through, setting things to rights. During the endless round of chores, one day Roberta finally interrupted with a question.

“Did you assign yourself the job of housekeeper, or does your husband expect you to be the family servant?”

The comment left Lucy surprised and defensive. “What else would I be doing if not cooking and cleaning?”

Roberta perked up and almost wiggled with her excitement. “We could take a look at those silk dresses you’re hoarding in your closet and devise a new wardrobe for you and Brody.”

Lucy waved the suggestion aside. “My clothes are fine, but look through the dresses if you want to. I have no use for such as I found there.” She’d been avoiding Roberta’s hints to do just that, partly because she didn’t want comparisons made between her former manner of dress and now. When she looked at the low-cut bodices and useless frippery that she’d once worn, she questioned her good sense.

That afternoon, Brody and Lucy came in from admiring new kittens in the barn. Having ripped her skirt on a rough edge of the door, Lucy went to her bedroom to change her dress.

To Lucy’s surprise, Roberta stood before her closet going through her clothes. She’d already laid several dresses on the bed.

“Roberta?”

“Quincy, you need these dresses remade. I am sure they don’t fit anymore, but feel how fine this material is.” Roberta stroked the fabric and added, “Too fine for you to be wearing in the kitchen and garden, of course, but lovely to dress for the evening meal.”

“Roberta, I cook the evening meal. Wearing a fancy silk gown would ruin it quicker than stomping it in mud.”

Her friend frowned at her and then conceded, “If you must burden yourself with all that work you insist on doing every day, let me sew you up some muslin or cotton housedresses. But, really, Lucy, a lady does not work like a field hand.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow.

Roberta continued, “I thought I’d just take these to my room and alter them to fit you.” She gathered up the five or so that she’d chosen and bustled toward Lucy in the doorway.

Lucy was getting peeved at the bossy actions of her friend. “Put them back.”

Roberta seemed shocked, tearing up and dabbing at her nose with a lacy handkerchief she always kept handy. Familiar with the gesture, Lucy remained unmoved and Roberta’s expression changed to stubborn.

“I don’t care if you can’t use these fine dresses to perform your daily chores, Lucy. Maybe Ambrose would like to see his wife act like someone other than the village drudge.” Roberta’s cheeks were red and her tone sharp.

Lucy didn’t let her finish, cutting through her babble. “That’s enough of your insights into my life. Thank you, Roberta, but while you’re visiting, try to keep your opinions to yourself.”