Chapter 8
WARREN
“Sweet Jenny buys candles,
Tall candles and wicks,
She greases ‘em up
Just like it’s a—”
Velvety whiskers tickle the back of my neck mere seconds before a low moo deafens my right ear.
“You interrupted my song, Rosie,” I grumble. A song with lyrics so bawdy and unfit for my wife and child, but no one’s here in the barn except for me.
And Rosie.
“Shove off, now. I already gave you an apple, and you’re not getting any more.” The brown calf wandered into the barn earlier and meandered aimlessly around, but now she stares at me with a silent demand in her dark eyes.
Damn little heifer thinks she’s a dog what with the way she begs for treats and attention. She groans in irritation before one hoof paws at the straw-covered stall floor in warning.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t you do it.”
The fringe of her long eyelashes frames the whites of her eyes as they roll backward and her neck stretches out.
She’s gonna do it. Damn it all to hell and back.
I swear she smirks at me as she emits a bellow heavy enough to shake the string of drool hanging from her black muzzle.
How the hell her vocalizations are noisier than her mother’s, I don’t know.
“Damn it. Last one.” I rummage through the satchel at my boots and curse again. “There’s no more apples. How about a carrot?”
Tongue lolling, she snatches it from my fingers, that same string of drool never falling as her jaws work back and forth.
“Happy now?” Apple, carrot. Anything to munch on, apparently. Satisfied to have won this round, she trots out the open barn doors, head bouncing in victory. “Damn cow.”
Now I can get back to my task—finishing Emmaline’s cradle.
With the men sent from my family taking over the chores, I’ve been able to spend the last three days working on it.
Now all that’s left is a bit of sanding so my little girl doesn’t get any splinters.
If I’d had more time, I would have added more embellishments than the two little birds I carved in the middle of the headboard, but after Mara threw my own words at me about Emmaline sleeping on the floor, I couldn’t wait any longer.
Our child deserves to sleep in a proper cradle.
One that rocks back and forth and not in a drawer on the floor.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to see my wife’s sad lips tip up in a smile. Even a little one.
Checking for any rough spots I missed, I smooth them out with a metal scraper and turn my thoughts to my wary wife.
I should have known better than to move her when she was in a dead sleep, but seeing her on the floor all curled up like a damned dog tore me up inside.
She already damn near falls off the bed every night just to avoid my touch, but to choose the floor over the bed even when I wasn’t there?
Her distrust of my every move couldn’t be any more obvious.
Don’t hurt my hands…kick me instead.
The knee to my manhood hurt like the devil, but the storm of ragged emotions in her eyes as she stood guard between me and Emmaline like I was some monster was worse.
To know that Mara expected me to lay a hand on either one of them like the sons of bitches did to her puts a foul taste in my mouth.
She needs time to heal, I know she does.
Both her body and her mind. I’ll see to it that she gets all the time she needs.
Another moo sounds from behind me, but I don’t look at the calf this time. “Hellfire, Rosie, get on with you now and leave me be.”
“Hope you don’t sweet talk your brand new wife like that.”
I swivel to see a lanky masculine form swaggering through the barn doors. “Dalton? The hell are you doing here?” I wasn’t altogether wrong in assuming the noise was Rosie, because there she is, neck craned around the door as she bides her time and lurks.
“Your pa sent me over. Said you got hitched and might be needing a hand.”
Shoving the lingering heaviness aside, I slap my close friend’s back in greeting.
“Thought you were with his foreman on the drive out to Norham.” With the cattle drive lasting at least three and a half grueling months, I’d not expected to see him for another week at least. “What’re you doing back so early? ”
“Early?” Brushing some hay from his faded red shirt, Dalton leans against a stall and lazily hooks one muddy boot over the other. “You are a loon, aren’t you? Been back since two days ago.”
Two days? Maybe that hit to the head at the church messed me up more than I thought. Or maybe I have no sense of time since focusing all of it on Mara and my Little Bit.
“Well, how about that. Did he say when they were coming over?” Last I’d seen my parents, they’d been with Old Widow Hester at the fair.
Since they sent some farmhands over, I know Jed told them I’d gotten married, but I wonder if he told them about Dove being kidnapped and us going after her.
Sure as hell wasn’t time enough for me to stop by and fill them in on everything.
Not when I needed to get Mara to a safe place.
Dalton hitches his hat back to expose his blond hair and jerks his head to one side. “About five minutes or so. Passed them on the way over here.”
I can’t help my grin. As with family tradition, they were likely just giving me and Mara time to settle in, but now I can’t wait for them to meet my wife and child.
If she’ll even feel comfortable meeting them.
I know my family would never look down on her or Emmaline, but she doesn’t know that. Not yet.
Only one man.
Please don’t hurt me.
Just as quickly, my face falls. Maybe she’ll be okay with Pop as long as my momma’s with him. And maybe I’d better keep Dalton away from her for now.
My friend whistles and steps closer to inspect the cradle, nudging it with a boot to make it rock.
“Well, well, well. Only been married a short while and already got the missus in the family way, you son of a gun. Must be quick on the draw in more ways than one, eh?” He jabs an elbow into my side, but it’s his sly tone that has me cutting a sharp glance to him as I lower to my haunches.
“Watch your words. That’s my wife you’re talking about.
And keep your filthy boots off my baby’s cradle.
” The dirty mark comes off easily enough, but I still scowl at him as I raise up.
Just because we grew up close as brothers doesn’t mean he can joke about my woman like that. “Besides, the baby’s already here.”
His mouth drops at the same time I smugly add, “A girl.”
“The hell you say!” Dalton slaps his hat against his knee. “Who’s the lucky gal? And where is she? Wait…don’t tell me—you steal Old Widow Hester away in the night and sneak her into the hayloft?”
He can’t dodge my swift punch any better than my laughter hides my grimace.
“How’d you get those knobby old knees of hers up the ladder?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Bet you musta been a real gentleman and slung her over your shoulder to carry her up.”
“Shut up.” I smother another laugh as I swing again, but Dalton dances away. Damn him for being so lean.
“C’meeere, Warren!” Only a fool would think his caterwauling screech sounded like an old woman. “Gimme a little kiss.”
“You son of a bitch.” Both our hats go flying as I tackle him to the ground and rear a fist back. “Kiss this.”
He blocks my arm and pouts. “That’s no way to court a lady.”
“The ugliest lady I ever did see,” I grunt, shoving my free hand against his face as his lips pucker together. “Oh, hell no—don’t even think about it!” Our strength is almost matched despite him being so wiry, but no way in hell is he getting close to my face.
“Jush…a lil’…kish.” His words are muffled by the pressure of my hand to his chin, but that doesn’t stop him from grinning like the devil and straining upward. That does it. All hell breaks loose as we tumble and scuffle across the barn floor.
“Saints preserve us, Cornelius. If our youngest sons don’t turn their wives into widows, it’ll be a blessed miracle from the good Lord above.”
My parents. That was a quick five minutes.
“Help—” Unable to keep a straight face, Dalton clears his throat and tries again in his normal voice. “Help me, Mrs. Shay! Warren’s gonna kill me.” A fistful of straw in his mouth shuts him up for a few more seconds.
“What did you do to my son this time?” my short little mother scolds. “Never mind. Warren, leave him alone before he chokes and we all have to dig out our mourning clothes. Come kiss me hello.”
A kiss. I ignore Dalton’s stifled chuckle at the irony and push off of him. Momma may be small, but we all know what she says is law. And if I give my friend a quick knee to the stomach to make him gag on that laugh as he spits out bits of straw? Well, even Momma understands he deserved it.
“Your dress is pretty.” The light blue brings out the silvered strands in her brown bun. “D’you get some of that fancy fabric down at the general store?” I dutifully press my lips to her cheek, and she hums in happiness before frowning at me.
“Yes, but don’t you change the subject. Are you trying to make your parents bury you before you give us grandchildren?
What with you and Jedidiah going off on your own and chasing down ruffians without even telling your father or the sheriff, and now you rolling about as if you didn’t have a head wound that I had to learn about from your brother. Tell him, Cornelius.”
Beneath the brim of his hat, Pop squints at me with brown eyes a few shades darker than mine, searching for any subtle hints of injury, but when I shake my head, his shoulders relax a bit. “Now, Eleanor,” he begins, “you know they did what they had to do.”
Momma presses a hand to my father’s chest. “Tell him not to worry his poor mother so.”
His graying mustache twitches in resignation. “Son, don’t make your mother fret. You know how tetchy it makes her. A lot.” Pop mouths the last words, spreading his hands above her head to show just how much. Good thing she’s too busy pulling my head down by my ears to notice his teasing.