The Bride Backfire (10 page)

“There you are!” Lucinda pounced the moment Opal returned from her outing with that uppity Midge Collins. “Should've known you planned to waste half the morning yapping away with your friend when there's work to be done.” A broad gesture encompassed her spotless home.

She took pride in her housekeeping, as any good wife and mother ought to, but it didn't serve her plans to flaunt the fact to her new daughter-in-law. A dull pain flared in her midsection, a rejection of Opal's new role.

No matter. She won't be here for long.

“I'll be happy to lend a hand wherever needed.” The upstart even managed to say it with a straight face.

Lucinda tucked away the proof of the girl's prowess at lying. “Happy to help, eh?” She drew out the word “happy,” as though testing it and finding it false. Which, of course, she did.

“I thought I'd show Opal around today, Ma.” Willa's hasty offer earned her a scowl. “Show her where we keep things, how the machines work since there are bound to be differences.”

“Perhaps some other time, dear.” She casually walked behind the girls and made a show of looking out the open door. “It's such a fine day. Don't you think it's a fine day, Opal? You've seen enough of it to be certain.”

“Very fine.” At least the girl knew enough not to argue.

“Well, with a beautiful day and three women working, I'd think it's a perfect time to begin spring cleaning!” She sprang the trap shut with military precision. “Just think how much you'll learn about this household, Opal.” With an effort, she kept her smile from being too wolfish.

Oh, you'll learn. You'll learn to rue the day you looked twice at my son. You'll learn that I can make your back ache and your eyes tear and your hands bleed before I'm through. But most of all, you'll learn that there isn't a place in Buttonwood far enough from this farm—that it's best to leave the Nebraska Territory altogether.

“Spring cleaning?” Apprehension laced her daughter's brow. “What did you have in mind, Ma?”

“Whatever needs to be done, I'll see to it.” Opal's stiff neck brought her that much closer to being broken.

“Everything calls for a washing, of course.” Lucinda started small. “The rugs beaten, the bedding and quilts laundered, the mattresses re-stuffed, and the stove needs a thorough scrubbing.”

“Where do you want to start?” The girl's words could have been deferential had they come from another woman. Instead, they sounded a challenge.

“I've dinner going, so the stove will keep until tomorrow.” She kept her tone light, trying not to let any triumph creep in. “And, of course, it's too late to begin laundry. Might be a good time to see about stuffing the mattresses.”

“With both of us working, we can finish today,” Willa offered.

No, no, no. Willa's not supposed to spend time with the girl. This isn't an opportunity to make nice or help her be comfortable. She's supposed to be hot and burdened with the dry, itchy work.
“Willa, I'd thought perhaps you could see to—”

“Showing her where we keep the dried husks in the barn?” Willa already headed out the door. “This way, Opal.”

Lucinda held her peace as they left. Even with Willa's help, Opal would have to work through the morning and the entire afternoon to see the job done.

Then, tomorrow, Lucinda could begin making the small comments about restless sleep, tossing and turning. About cricks in her back and neck and hard stalks poking her through the mattress—jabs that shouldn't happen if the job were done right. Unless, of course, Opal had meant for it to?

Because working the girl into exhaustion wasn't enough to bring the type of misery Lucinda intended. For that type of despair, she'd need to take away Adam's support of his new bride. Which suited her just fine.

Lucinda shoved away a twinge of guilt.

It's not bearing false witness. I'm just speeding things up so Adam realizes the type of girl he's chained to in time to make a difference. If she stayed, he'd find out that it's all true. He'd just find out too late.

Opal didn't like whiners. Complaining didn't make work any easier, quicker, or more pleasant. It might be good for letting off steam, but the only other thing it accomplished was to make a body seem lazy, weak, petty, snobby, or spoiled. In short, all the things Grogans were raised to believe Specks succumbed to. She'd rather wear shoes two sizes too small than complain. In fact, she point-blank refused to do it.

Aloud, at least.

Within the confines of her own mind, however, she allowed herself to acknowledge her suspicions that Lucinda thought up the day's activity as a punishment for daring to marry Adam. Opal slept on one of these mattresses just the night before and saw no urgent need for re-stuffing.

I didn't actually sleep,
her innate sense of fairness pointed out.
But that didn't matter. It could have been a bed made for a queen and I wouldn't have slept last night!

The edge of the mattress she and Willa lugged outside late this morning had struck her as perfectly comfortable the night before. Together, they managed to heft it in a bulky fold over the Grogans' sturdy wash line. It sagged toward the ground, lumpy as the corn husks inside slowly shifted toward the earth.

“Just a minute.” Willa darted toward the barn and came back moments later carrying a horse blanket, which she spread underneath. “This'll make it easier to carry the old out to the compost heap.”

“Right.” Opal already started cutting through the threads stitching shut the reinforced cotton. In no time they were scooping armfuls of the crinkly old bedding onto the horse blanket.

It took a couple of trips to the compost heap before they'd emptied it completely. Then they turned the entire thing inside out and took turns beating the empty covering until dust and debris danced in the air. By that time, bits of the dried material tickled her throat, scratched her arms, and clung to her dress, but it couldn't be avoided.

Opal didn't hold with vanity but knew full well that she presented a poor picture the moment Lucinda chose to ring the dinner bell. In addition to the dried bits of plant, she'd taken the last shift with the rug beater, so moisture from the heat of the work dotted her brow and made errant locks of her hair stick to her temples.

Willa, having rested for a few moments and even washed up at the well, looked a far sight better as the men came in from the fields. If it weren't so completely absurd, Opal would suspect Lucinda waited until she looked her worst to summon Adam—to show him what a horror he'd married.
You're just going to seduce your husband.
Midge's brilliant solution of that morning echoed in her mind. As though it hadn't seemed a ridiculous suggestion before.

“I better go see if Ma needs any help.” Willa hurried to the house.

Opal put her frustrations into the last few whacks of the rug beater until she was satisfied that the mattress cover, at least, classified as clean. She raised her arm to swipe back a few hairs with the back of her hand.

The Grogan men trouped behind her to the well, the sounds of water splashing intensifying the tickle in Opal's throat. She hesitated to follow, instead hanging back until they'd all gone inside. Then, she made hasty work of rinsing her arms and face, patting them dry with her slightly scratchy apron front before rolling down her sleeves and heading for the house.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior of the soddy after the bright noon sun. When she could see, Opal paused. Diggory sat at the head of the table, Lucinda, Willa, and Dave to his left, Adam to his right. But Larry sat on Adam's other side, leaving the foot of the table the only open space.

The clear message as to her low status in the eyes of the family carried the extra unpleasant touch of sticking her beside Larry. But more than anything, the fact Adam supported the arrangement left her adrift.

“Looks like she's stopped dawdling.” Dave, the young boy who'd spent a lazy morning fishing, greeted her arrival with a scowl that would have made Lucinda proud.

It must have. She wore one to make a matching set. “Now that you've graced us with your presence, take a seat. I'll tell you we won't wait dinner on you again. If you expect to enjoy the bounty of my husband's table, remember that we don't tolerate laziness on
this
farm.”

Opal didn't feel the itch of tiny pieces of corn husk in her mouth anymore. Instead, the insistent clawing of hot words tore at her throat. She swallowed them.

“Ma! Opal finished beating that mattress while I came in to help set the table.” Willa's unexpected defense soothed her just enough to make speech possible.

“I'll remember.” She forced a smile and moved toward Adam. “I know how hard
my
husband works on
our
behalf.”

“Larry,” Adam all but barked his brother's name, “why have you still not moved?” His words sent hope piercing through her.

“Because he is my son.” Diggory's bushy brows now lowered. “And his place at my table won't be usurped. That gal is not a Grogan, and her place is at the foot of this family. She should just be thankful it's not beneath it!”

“You speak of my wife.” Adam rose to his feet. “Her place is by my side.” Without another word, he plunked
himself
at the foot of the table.

Opal's eyes went wide.

“Adam!” Lucinda all but shrieked. “What foolishness is this?”

“The foolishness of a family who cares more for past grudges than current commitments.” For the first time, as Adam set his jaw and glared around the table, Opal acknowledged his resemblance to the rest of his kin. “If you deny my wife her place, you deny me mine. Larry, move up.”

Silence stalked every person at the table, from Dave's unhinged jaw to Diggory's too-tight one. But no one made a move.

“Now!” The sudden explosion of Adam's order made Larry jump.

He didn't move much to the side—but it was enough. Opal slipped onto the bench, hanging off it really but seated next to the man who'd made her his priority.

My husband.
The thought humbled her.
Perhaps ... just perhaps, this could work, after all?

“Don't think I've forgotten,” Adam's murmur, so low no one else at the table even heard it, caught her off guard, “that yesterday you told me to ask tomorrow. I'll be expecting my answer.”

Though it seemed years ago instead of just the day before, Opal knew he meant to ask her the name of the father. Again.

She stifled a sigh and passed the biscuits.

Then again, maybe not.

Another morning dawned, making Adam a man with a marriage almost two days old—not long by any standards. The measure grew shorter when one considered they slept in different beds. In different buildings. He fought back a wince.

Lord, You know full well why I had to make
that
decision. Not only would Ma raise hue and cry if I booted Larry from the barn and installed Opal with me, it'd be akin to a fasting man surrounding himself with his favorite foods. Leaving the temptation untouched, the hunger unfulfilled, would be next to impossible.

Besides, Adam never intended his wife—no matter how convoluted that story came to be—would live in a barn annex. Shotgun wedding didn't mean slapdash home, and he'd already laid the groundwork for their own place by talking with Pa yesterday. Now, all he needed to do was get Opal to trust him enough that they could move forward with this marriage.

At the moment, he got on with the morning chores. Larry's turn to do the mucking meant he moved forward with the feeding—the far better rotation. He grabbed two big, tightly woven baskets and headed to the silage pit behind the barn. The fragrant corn fodder, chopped up and left to ferment, made a moist and heavy feed the cows loved.

The rich scent of it mixed the sour tang of buttermilk—though none went into making silage—with the sweetness of corn. Adam figured he liked the smell as much as the cows did. But filling the baskets and emptying a hefty measure in the manger before each stanchion left a man with time to think.

And Adam's thoughts were full of his new wife. He'd watched her with Larry the day before enough to be certain Opal didn't return his brother's interest. If anything, she kept as far away as possible. That meant there wasn't any real impediment to the marriage. Sure, his family didn't accept her, but that would take time.
Time, I have.

Daisy followed him eagerly to the watering tank, the great horse lowering her head to take deep drafts. Water splashed down her long throat, fascinating Adam as it always had.

God's imagination knows no bounds. So the unthinkable to us—that Opal and I should be man and wife—may well be as practical and beautiful as anything else in this world. How am I to know?
After all, they'd only been married for two days. Not long enough to make the marriage real, but long enough for Adam to learn a few very important things he hadn't suspected about Opal Speck—make that Opal
Grogan.
He liked the sound of that.

Her temper rivaled any in her family. She just kept better control of it. Opal hadn't come to this farm and set up a sulk, either. She pitched in and, despite the situation, didn't complain. But, other than the revelation she didn't harbor a secret love for his brother, Adam's most important discovery was that his intriguing little wife had a determined streak that could out-stubborn a mule. And she'd focused it on avoiding him.

Oh, he had no questions as to why she kept as far away from him as possible. She'd begun that little dance just after dinner the day before, following his reminder that they were due a certain conversation. Which went to show that forewarned definitely made an intelligent woman forearmed.

How else to explain how Opal, who'd scarcely set foot on Grogan property aside from community events in years past, developed such a staggering specialty in slinking around unseen? Her newfound ability made his father nervous. Adam would have found it amusing, if it weren't so aggravating.

Which, come to think of it, pretty much sums up Opal. Too bad—It's her turn for a little aggravation!

He'd known Opal would be along to help Willa with the morning milking. And now she couldn't hie off or pretend she hadn't heard him call. A slow grin spread across his face when she spotted him and shot a quick look toward the door.

“Mornin', Opal.” He banged shut the lid on the oat bin and finished with feeding the horses. “I want a word.”

“Oh?” She snatched a three-legged stool and milk pail, making a beeline for the nearest cow. She set them both down, working them into the layers of hay and settling herself on the stool in less time than Adam would have thought possible, given her skirts. “What about?”

“A
private
word.” He put a staying hand on her shoulder before she began milking the beast and would have good reason not to stop.

“Willa and I need to do the milking.” Her feigned innocence would have put suspicion in the softest heart. “I take my responsibilities seriously, Adam.”

“Your first responsibility lies with your husband.”

“Go ahead, Opal.” Willa's voice came from the next cow, where she sat milking. “I've milked these cows by myself for years.”

“But”—his wife's anxiety came across as true—“I don't want your mother to say I'm shirking.”

“Then stop dragging your heels.” He shoved back a twinge of guilt over how Ma had been treating her. There'd be an adjustment period until he had their dugout set up. “Come on.” Adam slid his hand beneath her elbow and braced her until she stood, reluctantly walking with him into the crisp chill of the morning.

He led her a good distance from the barn, making sure no one would overhear their conversation. Every step chafed at him, wearing his patience a little thinner, until he turned to her. He didn't bother wasting a word, just raised a brow, waiting. Now that he'd gotten her alone, she'd have to spit out the truth.

She didn't spit out anything. As a matter of fact, Opal didn't even look at him. Her gaze traced rolling patterns in the clouds, her breath came in nervous little hums he almost found endearing. But not a word crossed her lips.

“Opal...” He spoke her name slow and low. It was half invitation to tell him what he wanted to know, half warning if she didn't.

“Yes, Adam?” She blinked, her smile too bright.

“I suggest you start talking, wife.”

“Wife...” The term seemed to galvanize her. “Yes, husband. We've much to discuss.”

At last.

“I've several concerns, Adam.” Pain clouded her gaze. “I've no right to ask, but I—” A hard swallow cut off her words, like she choked back strong emotion.

It struck him, suddenly, how fragile she was. Despite her facade of strength, his bride found herself in enemy territory, torn away from everyone she loved, and had given herself—in the eyes of God and man—into his power. Was it any wonder she feared his reaction when she told him the name of her child's father? What the consequences could be?

“Ask.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “What most troubles you?” Adam waited to hear of her worry that he'd set her aside when she made her revelation. Or her fear that his parents would make the rest of her life miserable, perhaps.

“My family needs me.” She fingered the pin she always wore near her heart. “They think I betrayed them....” A tear splashed onto the back of her hand.

“You're not asking to go back?” Something lurched inside him.
She's leaving me.

“Could I?” Hope, pure and beautiful, shone in her eyes, lightening the blue. “Just some days. I wouldn't neglect my duties here. But Pa and Ben and Elroy and Pete don't have any women—only me. If I could have a baking day, help tend a garden, maybe a little washing...” The words poured forth like an overflowing stream, the flood of her heart.

Her concern isn't for her at all.
Adam couldn't answer for a moment. Couldn't even listen to the rest of it as she continued.
It's for her family.

“Only two days out of six. Or even just the afternoons...” She didn't stop to draw a breath the whole time she talked. Just stared up at him like he had the power to make her dreams come true.

And what small dreams they were—to do double the work.

“Yes.” What other answer could he possibly give? “I'll talk to Ma about which days would be best.”

“Thank you.” Gratitude lit her face, making her beautiful. “Oh, Adam.” She bit her lip. “Thank you.”

“Pa's agreed to let you have the meadow bordering Speck lands for your apiary.” He couldn't resist the urge to add to her joy. “Let me know about moving it.”

“Soon.” She fingered her brooch once more. “The meadow is a good place for them—no blockages for the scouts.”

“Good.” Now that she seemed so much happier—like she didn't dread talking to him—Adam suddenly realized how much he wanted her to want to be around him. But still ... “Opal, you know I have to ask. You promised you'd tell me who the father is.”

The change in her expression came on so sudden, it was like watching a spring storm roll in across a clear sky. “I can't tell you.”

“You wouldn't break your word.” He refused to believe it. “Tell me.”

“I'm not breaking my word.” She closed her eyes. When she opened them, pain darkened them once again. “I said I'd tell you if you asked tomorrow.” She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “That meant yesterday.”

Opal didn't even try to hold her head high after she left Adam and returned to the barn. Sure ... she'd expressly avoided him after dinner the day before to avoid breaking her word. Never mind she'd assumed he would never have cause to ask the question again. He'd shunned their marriage bed and so still didn't know the dismal truth.

The only thing I've created are half-lies.
Opal considered them for a moment. Naming Adam as the man who
would be
the father of her child. Saying she
couldn't
give him a name. Telling him he absolutely
can't
get an annulment. Then telling the Grogans she couldn't
lie
about nonconsummation.

Every single statement skirting truth's edge but dipping into deception because Opal knew how it would be interpreted. She sighed as she helped Willa carry the fresh milk to the springhouse. They lowered the pails into the cool, slow-flowing spring water until only the top third stayed above the surface.

That's how I feel. Sinking so deep, I can barely keep my head above the water, Lord. I'm so busy watching my words, my faults rise higher and higher until they'll wash away what I love. I try to change the things that need changing but make so many mistakes! And what can
I do but wade through them? Even if it takes me deeper still...

“Do you want to gather the eggs or go fry the bacon for breakfast?” Willa had the grace to wait for Opal's response before heading to the house, despite the obvious choice.

“I'd be more than happy to gather the eggs and feed the chickens.” Better to face a few hen pecks than Lucinda's beak! “The corn sheller doesn't need two people.”

So they split ways, her sister-in-law moving homeward and Opal grabbing a basket. She searched the raised lean-to, originally a tool shed, which the Grogans converted to a winter coop first. As it had the day before, the stench of the accumulated winter droppings below made her wrinkle her nose. The coop needed a thorough spring cleaning. Otherwise the daily task of gathering would become something to dread.

She briefly considered offering to take on the unpleasant chore but discarded the idea. Lucinda would probably take offense, seeing it as an implied insult or Opal trying to tell her what needed to be done. If she did the work without asking, her mother-in-law would assume Opal was acting snooty and making decisions about the farm.

After a long, cold jail sentence, most of the hens happily roamed the farmyard, testing their freedom, investigating the offerings of springtime as plants and insects poked from the ground. Only a few kept to the coop, moody clucks who took exception to her search and showed their displeasure with sharp pecks and indignant squawks. Later, more hens would return to the nests, when laying truly began.

Today, Opal left without much to show for the experience but a few scrapes on the backs of her hands and satisfaction in a thorough job.
Now for the real task of hunting eggs.
The sun showed more of its strength as morning aged, brightening the farmyard for her exploration. Left to search around fence posts, beside walls, and beneath mangers, she became familiar with favorite spots of the Grogan chickens. More importantly, she became more familiar with the farm.

She even discovered a well-hidden nest tucked under the corner of the corncrib, with no fewer than four eggs nestled beneath the outraged young biddy guarding them. She puffed up to look twice her size, but Opal won the day, carrying her find to the kitchen.

Considering she'd harvested twice as many eggs as she and Willa managed the previous morning, she felt pretty good about the work. Neither Willa nor Lucinda heard her enter over the sizzle of bacon frying in the skillet, so Opal simply set the basket on the table.

“How are the chickens?” Lucinda somehow managed to make it sound as though her hens would suffer under Opal's care.

“Well enough, though...” She let her words trail off, as though hesitant to say more.

“Though?” An imperious brow hiked toward the older woman's hairline.

“Now that the hens roam free, it might be a good time to have one of the men collect the winter waste.” Opal wrinkled her nose for effect. “Not that I envy them, but I know they'll be fertilizing the fields about now.”

“True.” The speculative gleam in Lucinda's eye before she turned back to the stove told Opal her gambit worked.

I'll be cleaning out that coop before the week is out.
Opal shook her head at Lucinda's predictability as she made her way back to the barn.

The Grogans used a different model corn sheller than she'd always operated, but it worked on the same principle. This Rufus Porter design featured a hand crank that looked a lot like a spinning wheel laid on its side and belted to a box where you pushed in the corn up top. Stripped cobs came out the bottom, and the kernels spewed out the side into whatever bag or basket awaited them.