The Wedding Promise

“Go in the house, Jay,” the woman said, her voice carrying in the morning air. Low and steady, yet with an authoritative quality he could not miss, her command sent the boy running. She waited, unflinching in the brilliant sunlight as Cord approached, her eyes shaded by the hand she lifted to her forehead.

“Morning, ma’am.” He hadn’t forgotten his manners, even when faced with a half-dressed female in his own backyard, so to speak. His gaze on her face, he was only too aware of her state of dishabille, and his treacherous eyes narrowed as they widened their focus to include the lush curves she made no attempt to hide.

“What do you want?” She lifted her head as he neared, her eyes remarkable in their fearless daring. Not a twitch of muscle in that suntanned face betrayed her. Nor did her hands tremble as she lowered the right to meet the left at her waistline. Her chin was a bit too firm for his liking, but the mouth that spoke a challenge in his direction was soft and full, her flesh clear, her cheeks flushing a bit as he rode close to where she stood.

“I was about to ask you the same question, ma’am.” His words were mild, his senses instinctively lulled by the sight of a defenseless woman and a small child.

She shrugged with deliberate defiance and her jaw tightened. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I don’t want anything from you, mister. Just to be left alone.”

Cord McPherson was a man of few words, but the ones that came to mind this morning weren’t what he could in all good conscience spout in her direction. His hands itched to circle that narrow waist. His body twitched in a too long neglected fashion as he allowed his gaze to openly scan her form.

Not for the life of him could he be so blunt as to tell her she was about three feet from a randy man.

He shifted in the saddle, discomfort a reality now. “I’m wonderin’ just what you’re doin’ on my property, ma’am.”

Over her shoulder, a taller version of the small boy she’d sent scampering peered around the corner of the shack.

Cord nodded at him. “Another one of your bunch?” he asked politely. And then his eyes glittered with a dark menace as the youth lifted a shotgun to his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, boy.” As far as from dawn to full dark, his voice plunged to a low, growling threat, the affable visage only a memory.

The woman spun about, her head shaking a warning. “Henry, put the gun down!”

The barrel wavered and fell, its weight pulling it almost to the ground, and the boy glared, a passionate threat, unhampered by his compliance. His dark hair gleaming in the sunlight, he waited, as if one movement from the horseman would bring his heavy weapon into line once more.

The young woman turned to Cord again, as if caught between two opposing forces. “He’s only a boy and no threat to you.”

“Hate to gainsay you, ma’am, but any hand holdin’ a gun is a threat in my book. I’d suggest you have him put that shotgun on the ground, or I’ll have to see to it myself.”

“Put down the gun, Henry. Right now.” Without looking back over her shoulder, the woman issued the order, her tone of voice speaking confidence in his obedience.

And he obeyed. Without hesitation, he leaned forward and deposited his weapon on the grass. His mouth twisted in a mutinous grimace and his eyes burned with a thwarted gleam, but he obeyed.

Cord swung from his saddle, dropping his reins to the ground. With two long strides, man and woman were in touching distance and Cord’s mouth twitched as he caught sight of the alarm she could not hide at his approach.

She stepped back, her hands rising distractedly to spread across her breasts, a purely female gesture, honed by the instincts inbred in women, and he recognized it for what it was. She’d only now remembered her state of undress, her vulnerability to his masculine strength.

In the heat of the first few minutes of their encounter, she’d been aware only of the danger his presence offered to the young boys she guarded with her very body. Now she was apprehensive for her own sake, and her eyes were wary as she faced him.

“We haven’t got anything you’d want, mister. There’s just me and the boys. Our pa will be back any time now, but—”

Cord’s eyes flickered to the telltale clothesline, strung between two sturdy maple trees. “Not much on that line that’d fit a full-grown man.”

Her eyes met his, a defiant look alive in their depths. “I haven’t gotten to his things yet.” The softness was gone from her lips as the blatant lie fell from her mouth. She swallowed, a visible breach in her composure, and her cheeks flushed crimson as she turned away, her hands moving to spread over the bare flesh above the bodice of her petticoat.

He followed an arm’s length behind her, his gaze sweeping over the length of her slim body. The petticoat was too short for fashion, exposing bare feet and ankles and just a suggestion of curving calves. Her shoulders were smooth, creamy and inviting, and his hands clenched as he felt the urge to touch the softness he knew would meet his caress.

“You’re on my property,” he reminded her. Her shoulders lifted, as if she’d caught her breath at his words, and she halted.

“We didn’t know anyone lived here. It was empty and neglected and we…” Her words trailed off and her head shook, a negative gesture. “We can pay a little for the use of the place. We’ll only be here for a while, just till we make some decisions.”

It was a fair offer. But Cord McPherson was used to doing business face-to-face. Looking at her back was a pleasure, but the memory of what she had become so conscious of in the past few minutes gnawed at him.

“Turn around and look at me if you want to do business, ma’am.” His words were low, but unwavering, an ultimatum in any man’s language.

“I can’t.” She whispered her denial of his demand. Her head turned, just a bit, and he caught sight of her rosy cheek, her lashes sweeping its heated surface.

It was enough. He’d managed to embarrass her beyond her endurance, and his good sense took command.

“Go put a dress on and get yourself back out here.”

She fled. With slender feet brushing aside the grass, she ran the few steps to the shack, one hand grasping the arm of the watching boy as she turned the corner.

“Rae!” The protest rang out in the silence and was hushed by a soft murmur from beyond his sight.

Cord cast one measuring glance around the empty clearing, then, lifting an empty wooden bucket from his path and leading his horse he headed for the stream.

She’d known it was too good to be true. That they would find an empty house…no, not a house, a shanty really. But sufficient for their needs for now.

She’d cleaned it up, sweeping the dirt floor with her mother’s good broom, scrubbing the crude wooden table and chair with an old shirt of Pa’s. The stove worked, once she’d carried out an accumulation of ashes and set a small pile of kindling to burning in its depths. The draft worked and the chimney drew well.

The boys had taken over the single bunk, one at each end for sleeping, and she’d been content to roll up by the stove at night, the shotgun placed in front of her. It had almost been idyllic, this three-week stretch of time, with her marking the days in her mother’s journal.

Somehow, it was important that she know when Sunday came. And just the other day she’d sat beneath the trees to read from Pa’s Bible, knowing the boys would only pay attention for a short while. She’d sung with them, reminding them of the words they stumbled over, yearning for an hour in the white church back home in Pennsylvania.

Home. Her mouth tightened as the word nudged her memories. She bent to find her blue dress in the trunk beside the boys’ bunk, her fingers busy as she unfolded it and pulled it over her head. No sense in getting maudlin over the past. This was here and now and she was committed to making the best of things.

The buttons slid easily into the handmade buttonholes her mother had worked with care one winter’s evening. Rachel Sinclair allowed only a moment’s grief for that memory as she prepared herself to face the man waiting outdoors.

Crying never did anyone any good as far as she could see. She’d shed her tears when the bodies of the people she loved most in the world were lowered into their graves, each a day apart from the other, more than a month ago, beside the trail in Missouri.

Then she’d gathered up the reins and taken charge. Any grown woman, eighteen years old, had better be equipped to tend to her family these days, or she’d be showing a decided lack of good upbringing, she’d vowed on that day.

And she’d done just that. Taken charge of her brothers and turned her face west. In the direction of her father’s dream…a dream she vowed would not die with him.

This shack was only a temporary stopping place. Somehow she’d find a way to continue on, to where she might find a place for the boys to grow and flourish. A place where she might find a man willing to take on a ready-made family.

A man. She blinked at the reminder. You’ve got a man waiting right this minute, Rachel Sinclair. You need to go on out there and face him and do some dealing. The memory of the small nest egg in the bottom of the trunk reminded her of the limits of her bargaining power and she shrugged off the daunting thought

At the door the boys waited, watching the tall intruder as he walked from their sight, heading for the stream. Preparing to join them, Rachel brushed back her hair with agile fingers as she approached the door, feeling for the braid that hung down her back.

“What’s he doing?” she asked quietly. Hastily, she rolled up her sleeves to just beneath her elbows. He’d already seen pretty near everything she owned. No sense in being overly modest, she decided stoutly.

Washing clothes in her petticoat had seemed safe enough. Besides keeping her dress dry and clean, she’d enjoyed the breeze blowing against her bare shoulders and arms, keeping her cool. She’d scrubbed out the boy’s overalls, rinsing them in the bucket and wringing out the water before she hung them on the line to dry.

And then, just as she’d sent Jay to the stream for clean water to wash the rest of her own things, the stranger had come, destroying what little peace of mind she’d been able to find in this place.

She was ready to face him, as ready as she’d ever be, but she hesitated at the threshold. His demeanor had overpowered her, more so than the gun she’d spied behind his saddle, which she was dead certain he could handle with an expert touch.