4. Chapter 4
4
I loitered outside the house for too long, a jar clutched in my agitated hold. Why did the thought of being alone with Hale’s wife frighten me so? I was as skittish as a lady of the night taking her first client. But the thought of precious hands, angry with blisters, propelled me into the kitchen.
“I’ve bought comfrey,” I placed my hat to the side and held out the jar. My tongue-tied itself in knots as Mrs. Hartlock looked up with an adorable frown. I refused to call her Esta. Hoarded the name in my throat like an illicit treat. So sweet. And not mine.
“Please forgive my ignorance. What do I use this for?” She turned it over, and I caught a flash of her reddened hands. I huffed to disguise the growl that forced its way up my tight throat.
“Your hands.” I scowled, and Esta put the jar down with a flicker of a smile.
Why did she look so damn proud? They must have been hurting her something fierce.
“They will heal.” She set down the jar and continued to peel potatoes.
I should have turned on my heel and left. Let Hale deal with his pretty, plucky, perfect wife. But her hands…
“Your skin is too soft.”
Mrs. Hartlock grinned, but the knife in her hand slipped. Perilously close to her delicate finger. I emptied her hands with a snatch. My heart crashed against my ribcage as I grazed her scent gland. Esta jerked backward, and her skirts clattered against the stacked bowls.
“Your skin is too soft,” I repeated, my cheeks heated. My hand tingled from the tiny brush of her silky wrist. Such a simple touch shouldn’t have my head swelling or stomach flipping.
She was married to Hale. Even if packs weren’t illegal, it wouldn’t be right. She was far too precious for a man like me. Raised under the feet of whores. Gods, I shouldn’t have come.
“Is the comfrey for my hands?” She blurted out as I shifted to the exit. I let out a sigh and turned back. If I didn’t help her now, her hands would only get worse. Mrs. Hartlock wasn’t used to working under such harsh conditions, it was obvious.
“Soak the leaves in oil. Rub a dab on the red spots and wrap your hands at night.” I snatched up my hat and looked anywhere but her. There was no explanation for the way I knew her, even with my gaze averted. I’d satisfied my niggling need to help her. Now I could leave.
“I don’t know how to,” she admitted.
My shoulders slumped, and I pulled out a blue and white enamel double boiler and dropped it on the bench. The hair at the back of my neck prickled as she watched in fascination. I tipped some oil and mixed the dried leaves.
“What does that do?” Her voice was like honey, soft, sweet, and rich with curiosity. I could listen to her talk all day and never get sick of the sound. I stared longingly toward the door.
“You gotta let this simmer real slow, a whole day. Then, we’ll drain it into a jar. You can slather it into your marks, and it’ll help.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure you have more important things to do.”
“I reckon I do.” I stirred the oil. There was a broken fence at the southeast border of the ranch. One that the cattle kept slipping through. I’d planned to move the stock into another area and get it fixed, finally. But all I could think about was Esta’s—no—Mrs. Hartlock’s blisters.
“I appreciate you thinking of me,” her breath brushed against my neck with unknowing allure.
“I ain’t—I’m not thinking about you.” I lied, and my shoulders rose to my ears.
Bastard cowboys shouldn’t be thinking about their boss’s wife. Not how soft their hair is or how she’d feel wrapped around me at night.
“How long have you worked at Hartlock Ranch?” Mrs. Hartlock continued like the silence unnerved her. I flicked a look over my shoulder, none of the tension easing as I stirred the pot.
“I’ve been at the ranch since I was ten years old. Reckon it’s close to fifteen years now. You’ll like it once you warm to it.”
Mrs. Hartlock perched on the bench, reaching for the knife once more. And I narrowed my gaze until she slowed her movements. She needed to be careful. It was easy to take a chunk out of your finger if you didn’t pay attention. I’d done just that growing up and had the silver scar on my thumb to remind me.
“I already like it. It’s lovely and quiet. Was your family alright with you working away? Ten seems awfully young to start the work you do. Although that’s why you’re so,” she waved her hand at my body with a grin, “perhaps I’ll grow taller and wider over the next fifteen years.”
I grimaced, fighting the smug smile that wanted to burst out.
She admired my size? What else did she like?
I severed those thoughts as my cheeks rushed with heat.
“Things are done different in the wildlands.” I stirred the oil. “But truth be told, it was ‘cause my ma passed. My pa—well—that’s messy, and I was mighty lucky to be taken in. Mrs. Hartlock brought warmth to this house and her boys, and if I ain’t being too bold, I think you’re bringing it back.”
That wasn’t inappropriate, I told myself. She really had already made this house feel more homely than it had in years. Even Bram, who hated her, couldn’t disagree.
“Truly?”
“I know Bram has been a mush-head, but he’ll figure it out soon enough. Losing his folks stung him real bad.”
I winced. I knew I had a coarse way of speaking. Like my words were dragged through the wildlands and tossed out with a blanket of dirt. I’d never lost the roughness that came from growing up in Madam Silver’s, the whorehouse. My ma didn’t care how I sounded as long as I kept out of her way. When I moved here, Mrs. Hartlock flinched for a year every time I spoke. But she was still a good, earnest woman. Even if we weren’t close, she was missed by her boys.
“I don’t begrudge him. I lost my mother when I was barely on the cusp of adulthood, and if I could have thrown myself on the ground or turned wild animal, I would have.”
I met Mrs. Hartlock’s gaze, and my bitter, burnt orange scent engulfed her muted lemon. Mutual understanding. A sting pressed against the back of my eyes, and my spoon stilled. I knew loss, and so did she. It was in the shadow of her smile, she persevered. My chest ached at her strength. I swayed toward her, catching myself as the spoon slipped from my hand.
What was I going to do? Hold her? Comfort her?
“You ain’t had it easy without her help.” I cleared my throat.
“Oh yes, she was a beta and didn’t know—” she stumbled over her words. “She didn’t know how to find the best match for me.”
My brow furrowed as she wrapped her arms around her ribcage and plastered on a smile. This one was fake. I’d memorized her smile already, and the one she wore was thin and fragile.
“The Hierarchy Laws are stricter in the city, even for betas. Everything Designated do is scrutinized and weighed a thousand times. All I ever wanted was a place to belong, be useful, and use my hands.” She hopped down from the bench and gathered up a bundle of potato peel scraps. My eyes widened as she tapped the bench with her fist and then her flat palm twice before tossing the peels in the flames.
My eyes widened. Did she just ?
“You mentioned church the other day. You follow the human god?”
“Yes, don’t you?” she tilted her head.
Designated had our own gods, The Sage, The Warrior, and The Oracle. Ancient deities that were the ancestors of betas, alphas, and omegas. But what our ancestors ruled holy, the humans outlawed. Like being in packs. When we were included in their society, our religion was outlawed, too.
“Out here, the Hierarchy Laws ain’t so strict, and neither are the holy men. Just didn’t expect to see you give an offering to The Sage so brazen like.”
Her mouth formed a small circle, and she flickered a look at the oven in confusion.
“I-I don’t…I mean…the women who taught me to cook used to do it all the time. I didn’t know…it was something for the gods.”
“I’m sure the human god won’t begrudge you sparing some potato peel for a long-dead beta god. It’ll be our little secret.”
My chest constricted at the thought of having something of Mrs. Hartlock’s that no one else did. I tucked it in my heart and locked it away, enjoying the way her cheeks pinkened.
“Can I tell you another secret? I don’t care about church at all. I only attend to socialize.”
We shared a conspiratorial grin. Growing up, I spent time in the kitchens under the tutelage of the cook there. She passed on the way of the gods to me in secret, and I took them seriously, even if they were illegal. I’d attended church with the Hartlocks, but I’d never taken a shine to the humans’ doom-and-gloom religion. I still made my offerings to The Warrior, the patron deity of alphas.
“You’re in luck. Church in Misery Creek is more for chattin’ than prayin’.”
She hit me with a beaming smile. My knees turned watery. “You’ll have to introduce me to everyone you know. Help me make some friends.”
My fingers tightened around the spoon, and the handle snapped slightly under pressure.
It wouldn’t be me introducing her, but Hale. She was his wife. My shoulders went tight, and I glared down at the oil.
Mrs. Hartlock continued, not noticing my silence. “I’ll need to stock up the pantry soon. The flour bin is low, and I could use some material.”
“Alright.” I dropped my head. But then my jaw clenched. “You gotta take these things to Hale first. He’s your husband.”
Not me.
Those were the unspoken words that floated between us, and her breath pinched at the insinuation. The thought of filling that role made my insides clench with a hunger I knew would never be satisfied. Even as I considered it, my thirst grew. I dropped the splintered spoon on the bench and tore out of the kitchen.
I should have said goodbye. I should have given her some excuse. I chastised myself as I jammed my hat on my head. But that would mean looking into her crystal eyes and hearing her honey voice. I had to keep my distance from Mrs. Hartlock. Eventually this unnatural feeling in my gut would fade.
She wasn’t mine.