Now and Forever (12 page)

I
’m not staying in this bed another minute.”

“Ma was right about us needing all our strength to keep you in bed.”

“I’ve been lyin’ down for two months now. I’ve never stayed in bed for two months in my life. A man spends two months in bed, he’d better be laid out in a coffin.”

“It’s been one month, Tucker.” Shannon looked up from where she sat, stitching a pair of pants. “And the first two weeks don’t count because you spent most of that time out of your head with fever, with your belly so tender you couldn’t move. And the week after that doesn’t count because you were too weak to even think of getting up. So you’ve only been able to even think of being up and around for the last week. Which means you haven’t had to be still much at all. It won’t be much longer before Nev takes that cast off.”

“You are the slowest seamstress who ever lived.” Tucker
glared at the poky woman. She’d been threatening him with those pants the whole time. And it had been two months at least. No man could be this blasted bored after only one month.

She’d even made his shirt first, of all the stupid decisions. The shirt hung on a nail nearby, taunting him. She knew good and well a shirt wasn’t worth much without a pair of britches.

The little minx smiled and quit mid-stitch just to torture him. “You lie right back down or the only way you’re going anywhere is in a long white dress.”

“This is a nightshirt, not a dress.” He was starting to growl instead of talk.

“I’m going to send Sunrise to invite Caleb over to see you wearing a dress.”

Tucker wasn’t sure how exactly Shannon had come to know just what would drive him the most crazy, but she certainly had figured it. The thought of Caleb seeing him in this
stupid white dress
was so embarrassing that a man would be better getting caught buck naked. Except of course he was surrounded by women, so he clung to his dress as though it were a life-and-death battle.

Tucker narrowed his eyes. He sat on his bed like an ailing infant. At least she’d given him back his knife, and he was now carving himself crutches with it. They cut into his hands, though, so he began smoothing them out. He’d probably have them right by the time his leg bone healed and then wouldn’t need them anymore.

“I know how to sew, Shannon. Give me that needle and I’ll make my own britches.”

“Buckskin maybe. I doubt you can sew cotton.”

“It can’t be that different.”

“And you’d have to catch me first.”

Tucker’s mood shifted, and he looked her right in the eyes and smiled. “I wouldn’t mind catching you, wife.”

Shannon looked nervous, and a bit excited. Maybe she wouldn’t mind being caught. Tucker had gotten mighty good on his new crutches.

A tidy knock on the door broke the mood, and Tucker went back to being irritated. “If that’s Caleb, and you let him in and he sees me dressed like this, I swear I will eat a sheep every day until there’s nothing left of your flock but a cloud of wool.”

Shannon sniffed. “You’d have to catch them, too.” But she gave the door a considering look. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”

She laid the pair of mostly sewn pants aside. He knew the little vixen could finish them anytime she wanted.

Tucker swung his legs up on the bed, careful of the cast. His broken leg didn’t hurt much anymore, not if he was mindful of it. But Nev said he needed another two weeks at least in this piece of plaster and no weight put on the leg the whole time.

He pulled the covers up to hide his outlandish outfit, not sure Shannon was tough enough to stop a determined mountain man, if that was who it proved to be. Caleb had been heading up the mountain, so Tucker doubted it.

She went to the window, not the door, and peeked through a crack. She frowned. “It’s a stranger.”

Tucker’s and Shannon’s holsters hung side by side on
pegs right behind the front door. Tucker’s was now nicely filled with a brand-new six-shooter.

She drew her own gun, then plucked Tucker’s new Yellowboy rifle off its peg and brought it to him. They also kept an old shotgun over the window to the left of the door.

“He looks harmless.” Even having said that, she handed him the rifle. Shannon was an easy woman to love.

Out of habit he checked that it was loaded, though he never left an unloaded gun around—no point in that.

She inspected her pistol at the same time. She did it so casually and efficiently, Tucker couldn’t stop himself from grabbing her wrist and dragging her down to within an inch of his face.

“You are a sassy wife and the slowest seamstress I have ever known, but I am finding myself to be uncommon fond of you, Shannon Tucker.” He gave her a long kiss, then said, “If I don’t have a pair of pants by the end of the day, a pair that fits over this cast so I don’t have to sit around in a dress, I swear I am going to start chewing holes in the walls of this house.”

She smiled. “If you weren’t such a terrible patient, I wouldn’t have to resort to such foolish schemes as sewing with the speed of a turtle to keep you in bed. Promise me you’ll behave and I’ll sew faster.”

“I promise.”

She snorted. “You’re lying.”

“I am not a liar.” Tucker did his best to sound deeply offended when all he really wanted was to kiss his wife again. His stomach was still tender, but all the suppuration was gone. His leg felt much better now. So long as he
didn’t move too much, he was feeling mighty good. But not moving gave him too much time to want to move.

“Fine, you’re not lying. You’re just making a promise you mean to keep, until the very first moment it turns out to be impossible.”

Tucker grinned. He couldn’t deny that.

A second knock, a bit louder, sounded at the door. A high-pitched nasal voice called out, “Miss Wilde, are you home?”

He let her go and tucked the Winchester under his blankets. He was in bed with his head such that he could see the door, his foot propped up, his covers drawn most of the way to his chin, hiding the embarrassing nightshirt.

She went to the door, wearing her britches. She really ought to sew herself a dress. Tucker knew it was proper she wear one, but he was mighty fond of the way she looked in those britches. And he’d cut off his tongue before he proposed another sewing project before his pants were done.

She stuck the pistol in back of her waistband. It was an admirable wife who armed herself before opening the door to a stranger.

Cracking the door about six inches, she answered, “Yes?”

“Hello, Miss Wilde.”

“It’s Mrs. Tucker. Mrs. Matthew Tucker. I’ve recently married.”

Tucker’s chest swelled with pride enough that he near to split open his white dress. Exasperated though he was, he liked the sound of his name coming from Shannon’s lips.

“I’m the new land agent in the area, Hiram Stewbold.
I’m here to discuss your homestead claim . . . uh, Mrs. Tucker. I see no record of it being transferred to your husband.” The man had a high, fussy-sounding voice. Something about it set off a warning inside Tucker. He couldn’t say why, but Tucker was a man who trusted his instincts. He tightened his hand on his rifle.

“My brother-in-law is Aaron Masterson. He mentioned you were in the area, Mr. Stewbold.” Shannon stepped back so her face was behind the door a bit and arched a brow at Tucker, rolling her eyes at the door in a comical way, then slipped her gun back in its holster.

He frowned at her for doing that and put his finger on the trigger.

“Come in.” Shannon swung the door open. “I know we need to change the paper work. My husband was in an accident and hasn’t been able to get out of bed to tend to such things.”

Hiram Stewbold came inside, and Tucker almost laughed. There wasn’t one thing threatening about the man. That Tucker’s instincts kept rioting . . . well, he took that seriously. But Stewbold had the look of a frail, nervous sort. If there was a fight, Shannon could handle it alone, unarmed.

“Mr. Stewbold, allow me to introduce my husband, Matt Tucker.” Shannon was brushing off some mighty fancy party manners. Tucker wondered where she’d picked them up. He hadn’t seen much sign of them up to now.

Stewbold’s eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, shifted back and forth rapidly between Shannon and Tucker.

For all his appearance of being a weakling, Tucker decided he still didn’t like him. Those beady eyes darted to
the knives that were heaped in the corner, where Coulter had tossed them—save the one Tucker had been using to whittle—then to the furniture and the gun Shannon had so quickly replaced.

Stewbold assessed everything in a few edgy glances. He had a skimpy mustache that heightened an unfortunate resemblance to vermin. He wore a mouse-gray suit, and as he stepped inside he pulled off a round, stiff-looking brown hat. That sent his wispy hair, what little he had, standing straight up. He hugged the hat to his chest, twitched his mustache in an anxious manner, and cleared his throat.

Tucker had seen pack rats act like this. Sneaky, looking around for anything shiny they could grab and slink away with.

Nope, Tucker didn’t trust him, not for a second. He probably wouldn’t need shooting, but he would for sure need watching.

This man taking over for Aaron was a mighty bad idea. And he’d tell Aaron that, just as soon as Shannon finished sewing his pants!

S
tewbold moved over to Tucker. Shannon had to stifle a laugh when the man bent over to shake Tucker’s hand. She could tell Tucker had to let go of the rifle’s trigger. Stewbold’s handshake looked as weak and wet as everything else about the man.

The land agent turned, and as soon as his back was turned, Tucker grimaced comically at Shannon, then wiped his hand on the blanket and said, “Now’s not a good time for visitors, Hiram.”

Stewbold stiffened so dramatically Shannon had to fight not to giggle. She whirled toward the fireplace in case her expression gave her away.

Stewbold cleared his throat for about the tenth time since he’d come in. “I’d prefer you deal with me in a professional manner, Mr. Tucker. Please call me Mr. Stewbold. I want to be treated as a man with authority in the area. You understand.”

What every man in the area
understood
was, you earned
authority in the West, you didn’t request it. Mr. Stewbold was in for a hard time out here. Just looking at him made Shannon want to get a cat and bring it into the house. A good mouser.

“Now, I’d hardly call this a visit, as if it’s a social call. I have a few questions I would like answered, and I’d prefer to get them dealt with. I don’t mind that you’re . . . in bed.” He said it as if Tucker was a layabout.

Shannon knew her husband quite well after living with him four weeks in a cabin and most of a fifth in a cave. It was not unlike being penned up with a cougar. For the most part he’d been a good-natured cougar, sleek, graceful—which was saying a lot considering his broken leg. He was a strong man with corded muscles, very calm in his wild way.

But no one should make the mistake of yanking on his tail.

Having Mr. Stewbold talk down to Tucker in such a snide voice was like waving a raw lamb chop at the cougar, then tucking that chop inside your shirt.

Tucker’s eyes flashed fire. “So what are these questions?”

Shannon heaved a sigh of relief. Tucker wasn’t going to just flat out go to war with the land agent. Shannon was sure that would come soon enough. But at least for now, Tucker would be satisfied with mocking the man. Stewbold was too foolish to notice.

Unfortunately for Stewbold, Shannon didn’t think mockery was Tucker’s way. That had a dishonesty to it Tucker didn’t hold with. No, he’d unsheathe his claws and attack sooner or later. Shannon hoped for later.

But it would happen. It was just a matter of time. Maybe Tucker was waiting until he had pants.

There was nothing friendly in Tucker’s tone, and Shannon had never seen him be anything but friendly. She’d seen his stack of knives. She’d seen the guns and bullets and powder Aaron had brought home. That strongly suggested Tucker had an unfriendly side. But she’d never seen it herself.

Now she did.

Shannon, standing slightly behind Stewbold, held up a coffee cup and waggled it at Tucker, who narrowed his eyes. She jerked her head at Stewbold, asking her husband’s permission to offer their guest a cup. Shannon didn’t think they had much chance of getting rid of him anytime soon.

Tucker shrugged and slumped back on the bed.

“Mr. Stewbold, would you like a cup of coffee?”

Hiram turned, stroking his mustache. Not a wise man to turn his back on Tucker. “Why, that would be lovely, Mrs. Tucker.”

With a tiny shake of her head, she poured three cups, setting one on the table so Stewbold had to sit down in a place Tucker could watch—and aim at. She took a second cup to Tucker.

When she handed it to him, he said, “Why don’t you go on back to your sewing, Mrs. Tucker.” Then he added so that only she could hear, “Or else.”

“Or else what?” She sassed him in a matching whisper, since she intended to do exactly that.

“You don’t want to know.” Humor flashed in his eyes.
And she thought Stewbold had a chance of getting out of here with his hide attached, after all.

Hiram, adjusting his glasses, said from behind them, “I had no idea I’d come out here to find Miss Wilde married.”

Shannon turned in time to see Stewbold glance at Tucker’s leg in a dismissive way, as if judging Tucker to be useless if he couldn’t get out of bed. “Perhaps I can come back with the correct paper work to change the ownership to your name, Mr. Tucker. Land agents don’t usually deliver paper work to be updated. Our job is to inspect the homesteads and make sure all the rules pertaining to building the structures and living on the property are met. But I can see you are not up to meeting your obligations to this claim. I would be willing to make a return trip.”

Shannon drew in a long, silent breath. The man appeared to have absolutely no survival instincts, because he sat down at her table, crossed his legs, and sipped in a noisy manner at the tin cup she gave him. She prayed Mr. Stewbold got out of her cabin while he still had firm possession of all his teeth.

Tucker’s jaw tightened until Shannon hoped his teeth didn’t crack. Then there might be two men in this room with dental problems.

Then the door flew open, and a problem stormed into the room that Shannon had hoped she could avoid forever.

“You got married?”

Pa had heard about the wedding.

“To him!” Pa’s finger jabbed at Tucker.

Who swiveled his eyes to the half-sewn pants she’d draped over her chair, then on to Shannon. Tucker might
very well have burned her right to a crisp. Eyes weren’t real fire, and it was a good thing, but she’d be switched if she couldn’t feel scorch marks.

Out of pure mischief mostly, she’d poked along and not gotten Tucker’s clothes finished, and now Pa had arrived and there Tucker lay, wearing a dress, his foot propped up. Not in any way up to meeting her cantankerous old coot of a pa.

Pa had prodded and snarled and goaded until he’d convinced Shannon and her sister to disguise themselves as men and fight in the War Between the States. He’d done more of the same by convincing them to homestead as men.

Their years spent serving in the war could be taken off the years proving up as homesteaders, and Shannon had spent three years fighting. So her five years of work to earn her homestead was dropped to two. Except Aaron Masterson, the former land agent, now her brother-in-law, had seen through Kylie’s disguise almost instantly, and Shannon’s and Bailey’s shortly afterward. He’d denied them their service exemption.

Which seemed completely unfair, since they’d indeed served.

Shannon intended to be here permanently, so whether two years or five years, it didn’t matter. But it was the principle of the thing. She had served. She’d earned that exemption. It still burned that she’d been denied it.

It was Pa’s plan to create a dynasty out here in the West, all in honor of his son, Jimmy, who’d died in the war. To do this, Shannon, Bailey, and Pa all had to prove up on
their homesteads. When they did, they’d own a stretch of prime grazing land as well as rich water sources.

Tucker wasn’t supposed to get his hands on any of it. But a husband took possession of his wife’s claim. Pa had already lost Kylie’s claim when she’d gone and married Aaron.

But Aaron didn’t want it. He was going back east. He’d released his ownership, and Gage Coulter had bought the land.

Now Tucker would own Shannon’s share. Tucker said he’d stay. But only an idiot would think Tucker was a man to be managed and bossed around the way Pa liked bossing his daughters. And now Tucker had to meet her pa at a severe disadvantage. He owned no pants at the moment.

“Have some coffee, Pa,” Shannon said. “I just poured myself a cup, but I don’t have time to drink it. I’ve got sewing to do.” Sighing, she went to the chair, picked up her sewing, and decided she’d speak to no man again until her husband had pants on. She put in long basting stitches, just enough to hold the pants together. She could fix them up right later. For now, she needed to get Tucker properly dressed.

Good thing her pa could rant and rave for a long time. Shannon knew that well enough. Tucker might be fully clothed before Pa said everything on his mind.

“I didn’t come here to drink coffee.”

“Then maybe you’d like to meet my husband. I’ve been married for a month.” Shannon stitched briskly. “It’s high time you stopped in for a visit.”

Honestly, Pa didn’t bother her overly. She was used to him.

She was more upset to think how angry Tucker was going to be about Pa seeing him in that oversized nightshirt. Tucker had taken her lollygagging pretty well when it was only her and Sunrise and occasional visits from Kylie, Bailey, and Aaron. They’d already seen him, and honestly, Tucker didn’t care all that much what he looked like.

But Stewbold, and now Pa? Shannon rubbed a hand over her face. She had no idea how to salvage this situation. Instead she shook her head and made her stitches even longer. “Tucker, I’d like you to meet my pa, Cudgel Wilde. Pa, this is Matt Tucker, your new son-in-law. And this”—she gestured at the table with her needle—“is the new land agent, come to take over for Aaron. Hiram Stewbold, meet Cudgel Wilde. He likes to be called Mr. Stewbold, so have a mind to do that.”

Pa glared at Hiram for a second, then turned back to Shannon. “Don’t you care a thing for your brother’s memory? We are trying to build something that will honor him. He died . . .”

Tucker listened to Cudgel yell for a lot longer than he should have, mainly because Shannon gestured at him with the pants she was sewing. He got it—let the old coot rage long enough and she’d have the pants finished.

He decided it wasn’t a bad way for her to be done with her sewing at long last. Add to that, she didn’t seem all that upset by her pa’s temper. She was probably used to it.

Somehow, even lying in bed with a broken leg, wearing a dress, meeting his father-in-law for the first time, Tucker felt not one bit of embarrassment. Even with the man insulting his wife with every breath, Tucker didn’t throw off his blanket and stand up and swing a fist. It helped his self-control that he wasn’t sure his wife would like seeing her father pounded into the floor by her husband.

He thought she might not mind, but he wasn’t sure, so he didn’t rush into it.

Cudgel turned on Tucker. In some ways Cudgel resembled Hiram. They were both little men, skinny and stooped over. Both rodents in their own ways. But where Hiram resembled a slinky pack rat, Cudgel put Tucker in mind of a weasel. The kind of varmint that’d sneak into a chicken coop and kill every hen there just for the taste of blood.

“Cudgel and I have met.” They’d crossed paths out on a mountain trail. Cudgel had been unnecessarily belligerent when he’d informed Tucker he was trespassing. No one shot his mouth off like that to a stranger in the West. There were too many dangerous men.

Tucker considered himself to be one of them. Only he wasn’t on the prod. He wasn’t looking for notches in his gun. He was dangerous when called for, but Tucker didn’t think it was called for very often. But there were plenty of men in the West like that, and Cudgel had proved himself to be a fool, to Tucker’s way of thinking.

“I remember you right enough. You think you own this whole mountain. Just because you were out here first, you think you can ride anywhere. Well, those days are over.”

Tucker looked at Shannon, who caught the glance, rolled her eyes at her pa as if she’d heard his rude talk so often she paid it no mind. For some reason that upset Tucker more than anything else. Shouldn’t a pretty woman like Shannon have a right to expect kindness from her father? Tucker thought of his own pa. Not much kindness there, but Pa hadn’t been an insulting fool.

“Are you going to wish us a happy marriage,
Pa
?” Tucker emphasized the word pa and thought Cudgel might start foaming at the mouth. So now he was more of a rabid weasel.

Shannon smirked and started sewing faster. If nothing else, he was going to get a pair of pants out of this mess.

Again, Cudgel jabbed a finger at Tucker. “We’re aimin’ to build something here. My son died fighting for his country. Even my daughter had the courage to fight in the war—while you spent it hidin’ up in the mountains.”

“Pa!” Shannon’s shout cut Cudgel off just as Tucker got his hands on the blankets to toss them aside and use his crutch to crack Cudgel’s skull open.

“What?” He turned on her.

Tucker waited to attack until his wife’s pa was facing him.

“You didn’t take time to hitch up your horse. It’s running off.”

Cudgel spun around. Through the door that’d been left standing open, Tucker could see a blue roan mustang trotting away. With a growl of rage, Cudgel charged out of the house.

“Put these on.” Shannon threw the pair of pants at Tucker.

“They’d better hold together.” Having his pants fall off in the middle of pounding on his father-in-law would just be about the limit.

“They will. Let me hold up the blanket so you can change.” She threw an annoyed look at the unwelcome and intrusive Mr. Stewbold and created a dressing screen.

Tucker, standing on one foot, tossed his stupid nightshirt off, sat down and pulled his pants on.

“Hiram, get out of here.” Tucker stood back up.

Shannon dropped the blanket, grabbed Tucker’s shirt, and handed it over.