Tempting Prudence: The Bride Train (7 page)

“You’re protecting yourself and your brothers. I’d be soft in the head if I thought otherwise.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. He clenched his teeth rather than let out whatever he was thinking. Without a word, he jerked back the chair and collected their plates, dumped the uneaten portions into a bucket. The plates clattered as he set them in the sink. Why did he behave as if he were the one offended?

Her hands trembled as she picked up the napkin she’d thrown down in a fit of anger and folded it. Arch unraveled her self-control faster than anyone. She had difficulty thinking straight when she couldn’t stop her pulse from racing every time she looked at him. The lingering headache didn’t help. That wasn’t his fault, though, and she wouldn’t complain. He’d been kind, regardless of his motive. She would give him the benefit of doubt and accept that he’d kept her here out of concern. Even so, she wouldn’t marry a man solely because she had no choice.

“I’m grateful for what you’ve done, but I am feeling better and I wish to return to town. I am not your responsibility.”

Rather than respond, he crossed over to the fireplace. She was beginning to see a pattern, avoidance versus confrontation. “Will you return my things, as you promised?”

“After we’re finished with breakfast.” He brought back the coffee pot and poured her a cup, acting like their argument hadn’t happened. “You need time to heal. Stay a few more days and rest. Once you get to feeling better, you might change your mind about leaving.”

* * *

Prudence put a brush Arch had given her to work and then plaited her hair, securing the end with a leather tie. She peered into a mirror above the washstand, gingerly touching the thread holding the skin together along her hairline. A scar was unavoidable. However, it could be worse if Arch hadn’t taken care to make fine stitches. The irritating man could be thoughtful, at times.

Thank goodness, he’d returned her clothing.

She smoothed her hands over the rumpled skirt. One sleeve was torn at the elbow and the bodice was stained from dirt and dried blood, which must’ve happened when she fell and hit her head. If there were other tears or stains, she couldn’t see them in the small mirror.

What did it matter? She knew how dowdy she looked, and refused to care. She wasn’t trying to impress Arch—other than impressing upon him her desire to leave. Oh, he claimed she wasn’t his
prisoner
. But what else should she call it…a well-guarded houseguest?

She peeked around the end of the blanket.

He sat in a chair, pulling on a pair of heavy work boots. She hoped he’d changed his mind about taking her back to town.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“No,
we
aren’t. You’re staying here and resting while I get some plowing done.” He eyed her with a look that said he wasn’t going far enough to lose sight of her if she tried to escape.

Running away would be a vain endeavor, as well as foolish. She had no idea how far they were from town, and wandering off on her own in an uncivilized wilderness was paramount to self-murder. She could see that, now that she was less afraid of him. She needed a better plan.

“My head isn’t hurting, and I’m feeling much stronger. Thank you for breakfast…”

She spied the pail of milk and a butter churn and an idea came to her. If the way to win a man’s heart was through his stomach, it stood to reason he could
lose
interest via the same path.

“Why don’t I return the favor and fix the next meal?”

The poor man looked so relieved she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Sounds good to me. You’ll get sick of my menu real quick. Flapjacks for breakfast, flapjacks for dinner, flapjacks for supper…” He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Get the idea?”

“Oh, yes…” She certainly did. Like all men, he wanted a wife who could cook. Once he tasted her
cooking
, he wouldn’t be able to get rid of her fast enough.

He tucked the worn denims into the top of his boots. “That field needs to be plowed to prepare it for corn. I’m already behind schedule. Good thing I got Sophie. Otherwise, I’d need a team of oxen to pull a plow blade through that thick grass.”

“I can imagine… I’ve never seen such a large, powerful horse.”

Standing, he adjusted his suspenders, which looked to be made from old mattress ticking. His wide shoulders and muscled arms pulled at the shirt, which had faded to a light blue that matched his eyes. His rough clothing enhanced rather than detracted from his appeal.

Prudence tried—but failed—to look away. Appreciating how well God had made him was no sin. Except, she had to stop appreciating him and get busy ruining his next meal.

Instead of leaving, Arch followed her to the fireplace. “Sophie is strong as an ox and loads smarter. I bought her from a fellow that brought heavy draft horses over from France. Plan to have my own herd one day. Drafts like Sophie can haul heavy loads—like railroad ties—easy as pie. Strong horses will be in high demand with all the railroad and mining construction…”

Sounded like he had a dream and plan. She respected a man with initiative. However, the man she married wouldn’t start a courtship by holding her against her will.

Prudence sorted through cookware scattered around the fireplace. She needed something to use to heat milk. Not a frying pan. This long-handled pot would do. “Have you considered putting nails in the hearth and hanging your pots and utensils? It would be easier to find the right ones, and they wouldn’t get as dirty.”

“Good idea.” Arch leaned in from behind and his breath stirred a curl by her ear. “I’ll be back in time for dinner. Don’t miss me too much.”

His hand came in contact with her backside in a fond pat.

Shocked, she whirled around, intending to slap him.

He leapt out of the way, and the aggravating rogue started laughing. “Don’t brain me with that pot! You’ll be stitching up
my
head!”

“Then cease your familiarities.” She backed up to a work surface next to the sink, which was nothing more than two boards set atop barrels. Snatching up a cloth, which appeared to be clean, she wiped dust out of the pot. Her hands shook. All he’d done was pat her through layers of clothing. Inappropriate, yes, and startling. But her body hummed at his touch like a metal rod struck by lightning. She hadn’t experienced this strange reaction to any other man’s touch. Not even men she had liked.

With effort, she focused her attention on pouring milk into the pot and then set it to warm on the same iron spider he’d used to heat the coffee.

Arch put on a wide-brimmed hat made from woven straw. Pausing at the door, he watched her. Rather than leaving, he returned to peer over her shoulder. “What are you doing?

She maintained an air of nonchalance despite being nervous at his suspicion. “If you heat the milk a little, it will make the cream rise more quickly. I’ll be able to churn it into butter faster.”

His forehead furrowed as he absorbed her explanation. She held her breath, praying he knew less about making butter than making flapjacks. “Don’t recall Ma mentioning anything like that, but if it cuts down on your work, have at it.”

He stopped on his way out and took down a rifle mounted over the door. Her father had taken a pistol to the fields in case of snakes. In all that grass, there had to be more than a few reptiles. That was something to keep in mind.

After he exited, whistling, she sighed with relief.

She moved the pot closer to the hot coals. Heating milk a little did help the cream rise. Scalding the milk would guarantee the butter would be ruined.

Her stomach knotted. Never had she purposely wasted food, and to do so seemed a sin. But making him want to be rid of her would be preferable to running away, or giving in to this irrational attraction. He sensed her weakness and would exploit it if she weren’t careful.

“Don’t follow the desires of your sinful nature…”

She would do well to heed her father’s admonition this time.

Arch needed a wife rather like he needed that horse. As for her, she didn’t expect a love match, but she refused to settle for convenience. She might be willing to marry a stranger, but it would be one she picked out, not one that was forced on her.

Several hours later, she’d finished the butter, baked two loaves of bread and put beans on to cook in a Dutch oven. Perspiring from the heat, she went out in search of a breeze.

In a field where the tall grass had been cut down, Arch struggled behind a plow. His mare looked to be working hard, too. Man and beast strained together. The both of them extraordinary, beautiful creatures, and well suited to settling this land.

She had hoped to marry a hardworking farmer and live on land that would grow about anything. Arch had fenced a pasture and put up stables for the animals. He had a good cow that produced rich milk and pigs growing fat in a pen. The chickens ranged free and roosted in the tall grass right alongside the prairie hens. A henhouse would provide better protection. If she were living here, she would insist he build one. But she wouldn’t be living here, so what he did with his chickens was his own business.

Arch moved out of sight, the house blocking her view. Just as well. She had to stop watching him and pining for him. Had he come courting, she would’ve been pleased by his interest, and if convinced of his integrity and respect, she would have considered him. But he hadn’t come to see her, even though he’d stated he needed a wife and she was one of the few marriageable women in town. He wouldn’t have selected her if he’d had a choice, either.

Banishing the sobering thought, she mopped her damp forehead with a napkin. The air was cooler out here, but she felt hot, and dirty and desperate for a bath. She’d seen no tub, but she could put down an oilcloth and make do with a bucket of clean water.

The farm abutted a wooded area with a spring-fed creek that wasn’t too far away.

She closed the clapboard door hung on leather hinges and lowered a piece of wood to lock it shut. That wouldn’t keep out humans, but it would prevent animals from getting inside.

“Rebel, here boy!” she called to the dog. Arch’s hound would alert her to snakes or other dangerous creatures.

As Prudence strolled across the clearing, Rebel zigzagged in front her with his nose to the ground. He got along on three legs fine, and didn’t resent his infirmity or complain about his lot in life. In fact, he looked like he was always smiling.

In a sense, the dog reminded her of Arch. Of course, Arch wasn’t missing limbs. His were all intact and nicely formed, and she spent far too much time thinking about them. He and Rebel were alike in that they both had a sunny outlook and disposition…and neither of them would let her wander off alone.

At the edge of the woods, three dark-skinned, bare-chested men stepped out from the trees.

Her heart lodged in her throat.
Indians.

They came to a halt at the same time she did. If they were surprised to see her, she couldn’t tell. Their faces might’ve been carved from walnut, being so devoid of movement or expression.

Rather than war paint and feathers, the Indians wore an odd assortment of clothing: a patched frock coat without a shirt, a bow tie around a bare neck, feathers stuck into the band of a battered top hat. Two men sported breechcloths and moccasins. The third had fringed leggings paired with a red silk vest. Shiny black braids hung over their shoulders.

Rebel bounded up from wherever he’d been and stood, fur bristling, between her and the three men. A low growl rumbled up from the hound’s chest.

The Indian in the top hat raised an old flintlock rifle.

“No!” She rushed to kneel beside Rebel and wrapped her arm around his loose-skinned neck, petting him to let him know she was all right. God forbid they would kill him simply for protecting her.

The other Indians, who appeared to be younger, were armed with bows slung across their backs. They didn’t reach for their arrows. If they did, she didn’t have a gun.

She glanced over her shoulder. Arch was nowhere in sight. If Rebel barked, he would come running. But then the Indian might shoot him. Or they might kill her and scalp her before he could cross the distance between them.

Prudence fought the panic rising in her throat. Somehow, she had to communicate to these men, convince them she meant them no harm. “The dog won’t hurt you, if you don’t hurt me.”

The man wearing the feathered top hat lowered his gun. “Want food.”

Top Hat spoke English, or a smattering. If she could make herself understood, she might be able to convince them to leave. She couldn’t serve these Indians the special meal she’d prepared for Arch. They would kill her, thinking she was trying to poison them.

“I’m sorry. No food.”

The Indian’s black brows slashed in a fierce frown that sent a chill down her spine. She had read about Indian attacks where women had been taken captive and degraded.

Her body quaked, an uncontrollable reaction to terror.

The dog’s growls grew louder. If she withered beneath her fear, Rebel might attack and things would go badly for both of them. From what she’d read, Indians respected courage. Even if she didn’t have any, she could pretend.

She patted the dog and then stood, shoulders squared. “All right, I’ll get you food, but I’m giving you no guarantee you’ll like it.”