Pistols and Petticoats (A Historical Western Romance Anthology) Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Ethan tugged his hat down over his eyes as he pulled the buggy to a stop in front of his home and office at the end of Golden Street. Ella had wrapped herself around him like a baby possum on the ride back.

  Ethan could feel the dampness of her tears and the occasional hiccupping sigh that told him she was too tired to do more than this silent, clinging protest against change of any sort.

  He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but her reaction to today confounded him. She wasn't a shy child by nature, because God knew she'd been passed around enough to those who'd helped him with her care. Nor had Violet had much chance to get to know her with all the chaos of the afternoon. Nonetheless, Ella sensed, as all children must, a change in the wind of her future.

  His new wife appeared not to take offense at the distance Ella had imposed between them. Instead, she appeared to be taking in the whole town of Clear Creek, as unimpressive as it was. Music spilled out of a half-dozen saloons with the tinny plink of as many pianos, and the ladies of Ike's strutted outside the doorways, enticing inside miners with pockets full of gold dust.

  The hitching rails were lined with horses and mules, as nearly every man from the camps up the creek had come in to enjoy what Clear Creek had to offer.

  Despite that, it was a town that had the makings of a future, if that future decided to cooperate. Families had begun to settle here. They boasted a real bank, a land office, a mercantile and a handful of other stores. At the intersection of success or failure, Clear Creek's future existence would be decided soon, either by the railroad or by the strength of the growing community itself. If it didn't go their way, they'd all be looking for a new town to settle in.

  The sun was nearly set by the time they got to his place at the edge of town, after the ceremony finished. That struck Ethan as fortunate. It had been some time since he'd looked at this place with anything close to a critical eye, but now, with this new woman beside him, her wide eyes taking in Clear Creek as a child might an exotic zoo, he found his own place lacking.

  The shingle hanging over the door that read Ethan Walker, M.D., Surgeon and General Practitioner needed painting again after a long, cold winter, and the small paned window facing the street could stand a good cleaning.

  Worst of all, he'd never even gotten around to finishing his front door, and it stood a raw, shabby gray and utterly without welcome.

  None of those things had bothered him until this moment, but he saw now that they should have. He wondered what she was thinking as she perused his place, and he could only imagine it was the same disappointment of which she'd accused him.

  As the sun dropped behind the mountains, the sky turned from a fiery orange to a rosy pink and, as it always did at this time of day, the crisp air carried the scent of the fir-covered slopes nearby.

  When he looked at her, she was staring at the point where the mountains met the sky as if she was seeing a sunset for the first time.

  "The sky," she practically whispered. "It's so big here. I can't get over it. It's quite, quite beautiful."

  Something tightened inside him, watching her. He had expected her to comment on the vulgarity of the place. Instead, she saw the beauty.

  Against his will, he noted how the sky painted a rosy blush on her creamy skin and gently shadowed the curves of her throat. Her eyes weren't brown, exactly, but a turbulent hazel color that shifted with the light.

  And her mouth. Ah, he thought, her mouth was a delicate pink, turning up at the corners even without her permission. Though she'd confessed to twenty-nine years, she looked younger.

  Or maybe he just felt much older than his own thirty-four.

  He turned away, wrapping the reins around the handle of the brake and glancing at the fading sunset. "You'll get used to it."

  "Oh, I hope not," she breathed. "I truly do."

  He hopped down holding Ella, and tied the team to the hitching rail. Then he walked around to Violet's side and reached up for her hand. Ella tightened her death grip on his neck.

  "No, Daddy," she whimpered softly, tucking her face into his shoulder.

  "It's been a long day for her," Violet allowed. "She must be tired. I know I am."

  "No!" Ella cried and buried her face deeper.

  Violet reached for her tapestry traveling bag then pulled a small gingham-wrapped package from it. "Look, Ella. I was going to wait to give this to you later, but I can't think of a better time than now."

  Ella sniffed dramatically and peeked out from under her arm, reluctantly curious.

  "Here," Violet said. "I brought it just for you."

  Ethan nodded his approval to her, and shyly, Ella reached for the gift, bound in a pink satin ribbon.

  Violet had been quite right about his disappointment, but surprisingly, she'd imagined it was because she was not pretty enough. Confound her. Did she not know she was pretty? How could she not? Her beauty was natural, with no need for embellishment.

  But her self-doubt wasn't his problem. She wasn't his problem. She was his solution. His practical solution to a domestic problem. One it now appeared he'd solved rather handily.

  Ella tugged the ribbon from the package and opened the sack. In spite of herself, a little gasp of happiness escaped her. From inside, she pulled a small, colorful children's picture book, with paintings of ducks, horses and puppies on the cover. She ran her small fingers over the pictures in awe and smiled up at Ethan with a look that nearly shattered him.

  "Dog, Daddy," she whispered.

  "I think she likes it," Violet said, stepping down from the carriage before Ethan could offer her a hand.

  Charlie Harris, the burly, gray-haired smithy from down the street, hurried up to the buggy. "Be happy to give you a hand with that trunk, Doc," he said, indicating the large trunk Violet had brought with her from the East.

  "Thanks, Charlie. I could use a hand, by the looks of it."

  "Then, you and your new wife just go on up now and don't you worry about your rig. I'll feed Jigger and put him up at my place tonight."

  "That's not—" Ethan began to argue.

  "I won't take no for an answer." Harris tipped his hat to Violet. "Ma'am?"

  Ethan frowned. If Charlie knew, no doubt half of Clear Creek had already heard about his new wife and, before sunrise tomorrow, the entire town would know.

  Might as well rip the bandage off quickly.

  He was a private man, despite his very public occupation, and he liked to keep things that way. But there was no help for it now. At least they'd have something new to talk about when they gossiped. Something besides Suzanne.

  "Charlie Harris, my wife, Violet Walker."

  He noted the blush that crept up her face to the roots of her hair. It was the first time either of them had said those words out loud and it gave him a pang as well.

  She reached a hand out. "Mr. Harris? It's a pleasure. And that's very kind of you."

  "Aw, it's the least I can do for the Doc here, and his pretty new bride. Why, he pert near saved my boy's life a couple of months ago—"

  "All right, then," Ethan interrupted gruffly, then took the tapestry bag from Violet's hand. "About that trunk, Charlie?"

  "Oh, right you are." The two men put their shoulders to the heavy trunk and manhandled it up the stairs. Violet and Ella followed. Charlie met her on the stairs on the way back down with a grin. "Ma'am?"

  "Thank you, Mr. Harris."

  "See you in the morning, Charlie. Obliged," Ethan called to him as he ushered her and Ella inside.

  His small apartment was on the second floor and when they opened the door, Ethan was surprised to see a fire already stoked in the grate against the evening chill, and food laid out on the table, covered in linen napkins.

  Good Lord. He'd been invaded.

  This had to be Matthew and Hattie's doing.

  "Oh, it's lovely," Violet said, taking in the organized chaos that had befallen his home in the last two years.

  He'd done what he could to contain it,
but with Ella and his busy practice, the chaos resided in piles everywhere. There were medical books and journals, toys for Ella, and more furniture than belonged in such a space. It was not much more than four small rooms: his bedroom, Ella's, a sitting parlor and a small kitchen.

  "It's not lovely," he said. "It's small and a bit of a mess."

  Ella sat down near the fire with her book and proceeded to ignore them both.

  "But these windows must let in so much light during the day, don't they? That's rare where I come from in the city."

  He squinted at her, then nodded at her to follow him to the bedroom. Opening the door, he swore silently.

  Violet gasped, then looked at him, confused. "Your friends again?"

  Rose petals had been scattered across his wide bed, and candles flickered in a dozen candlesticks beside it. Ethan closed his eyes, wishing when he opened them all of this would disappear like a bad dream.

  "Yeah. This is your bed," he said simply, putting her tapestry bag down on the bed.

  That stopped her hand halfway to the petal she was reaching for. "My bed? This is your room, isn't it? I've only seen the two. Yours and Ella's."

  He shifted uncomfortably and glanced out at Ella who was still besotted with her book. "We haven't discussed that part of our arrangement."

  She swallowed. "Marital relations, you mean."

  "Yes."

  She waited, offering nothing to help him as he stumbled into this new snare.

  "I thought... I assumed you would want..."

  She tilted a look at him.

  Oh, hell.

  "I am a healthy man, Violet. I'm not a monk. Let's make that clear. But as it stands, it's your decision."

  She blushed and lowered her eyes. But he took the opportunity to peruse the coppery fire of her hair, also not disclosed in that damned daguerreotype.

  With a sigh he continued, trying to recall how he'd planned this conversation to go, because not a single conversation with her had gone the way he'd hoped.

  "If and"—he paused—"when you feel willing to participate in such marital duties—"

  She colored deeply now. "Is that what you call it? A duty?"

  His fist tightened around the iron bedstead. "Of course, I won't insist on it. I can make other arrangements."

  She squeezed her eyes shut. "If you mean those brothels we passed on the way, I would prefer not to be the butt of gossip here."

  He dipped his head again. "I wouldn't allow that to happen, Violet."

  She gripped the handles of her tapestry bag and wrung them between her hands.

  "It can be... enjoyable."

  "As a duty, you mean. The way sweeping a floor is enjoyable? Or folding laundry is enjoyable?"

  "No," he answered, knowing this question was some sort of trap. "We don't have to discuss this now."

  "What you mean is," she clarified, taking a rose petal between her fingers, "a pleasurable duty without the bother of any feelings."

  He squinted at her again. "Shall we talk plainly?"

  "By all means."

  "Marital relations and love," he explained, steepling his fingers against his mouth as he tried to get his verbal footing, "are separate things. Sex can be pleasurable and not at all connected with those kinds of feelings."

  She blanched slightly, but said, dryly, "Please, do go on."

  "It's fair to say," he continued, "that men and, apparently, women have needs. Physical needs. It's all very simple and scientific if one doesn't complicate it with emotion."

  "Scientific? I see. You're speaking as a doctor, of course."

  The candlelight played across the soft curves of her cheekbones and shadowed her mouth, making it look lush and full. Against his will, his lower regions tightened with all this talk about sex.

  "Yes," he said without qualification.

  "Then, by all means," she answered, "we shall attempt to prove your theory correct, Dr. Walker." She stared at the bed.

  He studied her with narrowed eyes. Something about her suggestion bothered him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It sounded more like a threat than a promise. "It's Ethan. And you're exhausted."

  A long pause stretched between them as she stared at the flames flickering on the candles. "I am. It's been a long eight days."

  He shifted his feet, feeling as if he'd lost his balance. "Are you hungry? There's food."

  "I'm not at all hungry. But thank you."

  He bowed slightly at the waist. "Get some rest, then. I won't disturb you tonight. Or, in fact, any night until you say so." Their eyes met over the rose-scattered linen coverlet. "Goodnight," he said.

  "'Night."

  As he closed the door behind him, Violet stared at it for a long minute, thinking she might never be ready as things stood.

  This was not how she'd pictured her first night in Clear Creek. This was not how she'd pictured her life turning out, in fact, married to a man for necessity rather than by choice.

  But, she had chosen. No one had forced her. She could have backed out today at the ceremony, gotten on a stage and headed down to New Mexico to burden her brothers with their spinster sister. She could have taken that factory job in Baltimore and lived hand-to-mouth like so many others did since the war.

  Instead, she'd chosen this. No point crying over what she wouldn't have now.

  She glanced around the small room, warm with its kerosene lamp and the flickering candles someone had thought would be romantic.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the ropes squeak. She had chosen this. And she would make the best of it. She was a mother now and that, for her, was a gift from God.

  She'd focus on winning Ella's trust. The rest? She'd worry about that tomorrow.

  Chapter 3

  The smell of smoke roused him.

  From his pallet on the floor, Ethan sat bolt upright in a disoriented panic. That movement was met with a stabbing pain in his shoulder and back.

  He hissed out a breath as the room came into focus. Ella's room. The child was bouncing in her crib, watching him with wide eyes.

  "Daddy," she whispered.

  Good God, where was the smoke coming from?

  As his head cleared, the sounds of pans clanking in the kitchen reached him, along with Violet's mutterings. Then he heard her cry out, followed shortly by the loud crash of a pan hitting the floor.

  Ethan was on his feet and in the kitchen before the pan had rocked to a full stop on the floor.

  She was holding her hand, blowing on her fingers. Smoke filled the room with the distinct aroma of burnt bacon, but the fire had been snuffed out. Most likely by the abundance of flour that had somehow exploded like a bomb across his stove.

  He seized her wrist and dragged her to the dry sink.

  "What the hell—?" he demanded, pouring water into the bucket there from the pitcher. "Are you trying to burn my house down?"

  She looked up at him miserably, not missing the fact that he was still dressed in his long johns, something that only occurred to him at the same moment.

  "I was trying to cook you breakfast and I—I burned myself and the bacon. Ow." Cold water engulfed her palm and she squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm sorry."

  He arched one dark brow. "You picked up the pan without a towel?"

  She nodded. "I'm afraid so. Please don't look at me that way. I know it was foolish. I—well, I panicked." An angry red welt was rising on the palm of her hand and across the tips of several fingers. "Oh, look at the terrible mess I've made of your kitchen."

  He waved the smoke away as he examined her hand before plunging it back into the cool water. "Here, keep it immersed in the water while I"—he threw open the window as he scanned the disaster—"clean this up."

  "No, please, let me do that—"

  "I think you've done quite enough for one morning," he said, as Ella began to call for him from the other room. Ethan rubbed his aching left shoulder and took a deep breath. Not a good start to the day, he thought.

 
By the time he'd pulled on a pair of trousers, cleaned up the mess and gotten Ella in her high chair, he was feeling the results of the sleepless night settling over him. The consequences of the decision to avoid her bed were plain enough in the stiffness of his back and the recurrence of that deep and familiar pain in his shoulder.

  Perhaps 'sleepless' was an understatement of the facts. He'd lain awake, mulling, until the early hours of the morning.

  It was his doing. All of it. He'd sent for her, agreed to her, paid for her to come, and married her. And now, he'd have to live with those decisions. In his desperation to resolve this problem area of his life, he had, quite possibly, neglected to consider that at the other end of this equation was a living, breathing woman with ideas of her own.

  Apparently, many ideas.

  She hadn't mentioned his choice to sleep alone last night, nor did he have any intention of explaining himself to her. And if anyone was to blame for his boundary-setting, it would be her and that confounded picture she'd sent him.

  He had imagined he would, when he'd agreed to this crazy scheme, eventually have marital relations with the woman he chose, but strictly as a conjugal matter. He had taken comfort now and then, since Suzanne, with one or two of the fallen angels in Clear Creek, enough to believe that his baser needs could be simply met without any ridiculous emotional complications.

  Perhaps, he decided now, that plan had been a bit short-sighted.

  He glanced over at her, standing by the sink. The smoke had cleared and the morning sun poured through the tall windows, casting a glimmer on that copper hair of hers. She had her face tilted up toward the windows, allowing the morning to bathe her in sunshine.

  Blast it all.

  He supposed even if she had been as plain as a sparrow—which she was not, God help him—that unnerving something she possessed, which could never have been conveyed in letters, made him more determined than ever to keep his distance.

  He pulled an aloe vera plant down from his window and broke off a leaf. "Give me your hand," he said.

  Violet did, thinking it was fortunate to have a doctor handy when she was being clumsy. His hands were large, but gentle. But his fingers were long and beautiful, really.