Pistols and Petticoats (A Historical Western Romance Anthology) Page 4

  Before they could say more, Maeve took Lydia's arm and directed the two women to the back of the store. Violet picked up Ella, who was still sucking on the peppermint stick, and stared at the house on the hill.

  Why would Ethan half-build a house and then abandon it?

  Rule number two: Do not wonder about Ethan's broken heart.

  Chapter 4

  Ethan left his last call of the day, Clive Allcott, a gold-panner, who'd left the coal mines of West Virginia a year ago for the fresh air of Colorado Territory in hopes of healing his lungs. It had been too little, too late, Ethan knew, as the man now had the cancer in his lungs. He did what he could for him, with laudanum mostly. Allcott's brother could only watch as his sibling deteriorated before his eyes.

  Ethan gave Jigger a tap with his heels. Rain was coming and he wanted to be in before the storm. He thought of Violet, home with Ella, and he felt a little punch in his gut.

  Eventually, Ella would accept her. Eventually, he would accept that she was more than he'd expected and he would come up with a strategy to make it work between them. Though, God knew what that would be. He felt adrift suddenly, without the anchor of his loneliness to hold him in place.

  Against his will, he remembered that his first marriage had been the antithesis of this one. He'd walked into that one like a lamb to the slaughter, not knowing Suzanne enough to guess who she really was or to protect himself from what was to come.

  She'd been a businessman's daughter, with her sights set on his surgeon credentials as some kind of social status. He'd been too busy with school and lust to realize it. They'd married right before the war and she'd seemed deliriously happy with him. Even her family approved. His own sisters were more reserved about her, which he'd never understood at the time. Trust a woman's instinct... they'd been right about her.

  But the war had derailed his ambitions in the Washington hospital where he worked, and he'd left Suzanne behind to operate in the field tents where he was most needed.

  After, nothing had been the same. Not him, not Suzanne and not Washington. He'd dragged her off to Colorado, as far away as he could get from that damned war and its memories.

  That had been his first mistake in a long line of mistakes.

  The rain started and Ethan tugged his collar up around his face. Jigger, who never seemed to mind the rain, pushed toward home as Ethan's mood darkened.

  He lifted his face to the raindrops and closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, and set his mind on Violet.

  * * *

  Outside, the sky had gone dark and rain had begun to fall. Suppertime had long since passed and Violet still hadn't heard Ethan's horse. She glanced out the window at the nearly empty street and returned to her diary.

  How odd it seems to worry about another person. I've only been responsible to myself for so long, I wonder that it comes so naturally to worry. I'm glad for it. Will simply being part of this family, mothering Ella, banish the loneliness that has crept into me since the war? Feeling useless is the thing I hate most.

  She had hoped to find some nursing post after the war, but those positions filled quickly, mostly with married women of plain appearance who would not be seen as, well, enticements to the men they tended.

  Nursing remained an uphill battle for women, and she found little difference in her situation after the war ended than when it began. The world was designed for men, she had long ago decided, and women were at their mercy.

  Ironically, she had done no different than so many women before her by marrying a stranger. She began to write again.

  Would the women I so admired for their independence think better or worse of my decision to marry a man who seems not to want any part of me?

  The sound of Ella's crying forced her to put her pen down. Violet hurried into her room to find Ella on her back, kicking her feet in the air, wailing.

  "Ohhh, what, now...?" she cooed to the child, reaching into her crib. "Here, come to Violet."

  Shockingly, Ella reached for her in her half-awake state and Violet obliged by picking her up and hugging her against her shoulder. "There now," she whispered, "no need to cry. I'm here. Shhh."

  Heartbreakingly, Ella clung to her as if her life depended on it and wept inconsolably. This child who'd never had a mother to call her own.

  "Did you have a bad dream? There, now. It's all gone now. Just a dream. Shall I sing you a song? Do you know Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star?"

  As Violet sang, Ella snuffled and hugged her tightly. By the second verse, she heard Ella humming along with her and by the third, the child had lifted her head from Violet's shoulder and was staring deep into her eyes as if she'd only just realized who was holding her. But instead of wailing, she tucked her head against Violet's shoulder again and fell back asleep.

  Rule number three: Don't be afraid to love this child.

  Chapter 5

  That was how Ethan found them when he returned to the apartment, curled together like a pair of cats in the rocking chair in Ella's room. He stood in the doorway, still dripping from the rain, and stared at them. Violet, with her eyes closed, rocking his daughter. Ella, who not only allowed it, but had completely surrendered to it, it seemed.

  Something turned low inside him at the sight. Satisfaction? Relief? Yes, that was all it was. In his mind, this was what he'd pictured for Ella. A mother who would care for her, hug her when she needed hugging, rock her when she cried.

  Oh, it wasn't that he couldn't do those things. He did and he had. And truth be told, he would miss being the one Ella would run to for comfort. But even with that, for Ella, there would always be a void. A child needed a mother, a woman's softness to comfort her and hold her.

  Just as you do, a small voice reminded him.

  A frown furled his brow. That, he reminded himself, was the last thing he needed. In fact, he despised that sort of thing and he'd had enough sympathy to last him a lifetime.

  No, he didn't need coddling. He'd gone through hell and come up on the other side. He'd survived. He wasn't about to go backward now, to allow someone in who could destroy him again, no matter what Matthew thought of him.

  Nor would he confuse want with need, or lust with love. He'd drawn up the rules for this marriage and he was satisfied with them. And there was nothing she could do that would—

  She noticed him in the doorway and sent him a slow, beatific smile. One of pure happiness that shifted her from simply pretty to... beautiful.

  He cursed silently at the feeling of something rusty unlocking inside him.

  Ethan clenched his jaw and nodded to her as she stood and gently shifted Ella back into her crib.

  "I'm so glad you're home. She had a bad dream," Violet whispered.

  He gestured with a cant of his head to follow him out of the room.

  "I was getting worried," she said when they reached the parlor. "It's late and you're soaking wet. Is everything all right?"

  He removed his hat and duster and slung them over a ladder back chair, then wiped his face down with a small towel on the counter.

  Violet was already dressed in her white night rail and blue gingham wrapper. Her hair was still caught up loosely with pins. She looked, he thought, like she belonged here.

  "Had to call on a miner up the creek a ways who needed some medicine. And that was after Marianne Francis had a baby boy tonight," he told her. "Took his time coming."

  "A baby," she sighed. "I suppose babies must be few and far between around here. I mean, with all the men?"

  He lifted one corner of his mouth tiredly. "Marianne is one of Ike's... working girls."

  "Oh. What will she do now? With the baby, I mean?"

  "Raise it in the whorehouse. Unless Ike kicks her out. What choice does a woman like her have?"

  No choice, she thought. Women, in general, had very few. Unless they had money. Or husbands. And even then...

  "There's an orphanage in Denver City. Worse comes to worst," he said.

  "Does she want to give him u
p?"

  "Not unless she's forced to. Marianne is a sunny, simple girl. She's still hoping one of these miners will strike it rich and marry her."

  Violet shook her head. "It's not easy being a woman."

  He studied her for a moment, searching for her hidden meaning. "No. I don't suppose it is."

  "You must be tired. And hungry."

  He flicked a wary look at her. "Did you cook?"

  "And shockingly," she replied, "the house still stands."

  A smile flicked at his mouth. She'd made a joke. Something did smell good. Something with cinnamon and—

  She lifted a napkin from a plate near the stove and set it in front of him. "Apple Brown Betty. It's the one thing my mother taught me to make."

  He wasn't about to tamper with the self-satisfied look on her face by telling her that Ike's girls had fed him to the gills before he left. He'd hoped for a wife who could cook but he might have to settle for someone who'd love Ella. He took a bite—

  —and rolled his eyes shut.

  It was better than good. It was the best thing he'd tasted in years. He flicked a glance at her and nodded. At least they wouldn't starve as long as he could keep her in apples. He finished it in a few bites and she reached for his plate. "I'm impressed," he said. "It was delicious."

  A pleased blush colored her cheeks. "I'm glad you liked it."

  His lips parted as he watched her turn to wash his dish. Already, she'd made herself at home in his house, baking, starting fires, soothing Ella, dressed in... that.

  "I took Ella to the mercantile today," she said, with her back to him. "I met Maeve. She's very nice. She's thinks very highly of you."

  "Mm-hmm." His gaze traveled the length of her, appreciating her tallness. It made her seem less fragile somehow. He wondered, absently, if her legs were as long as he imagined. With no corset or bustle exaggerating her form, she was still sweetly shaped, with slender but womanly curves.

  "I hope you don't mind that I put a potholder and these apples on your account. Maeve said it would be all right."

  "Put anything you need or want on that account," he said and licked his lips, still tasting cinnamon.

  He'd be lying to deny how often he'd thought of her today as he made his rounds, pictured her here, waiting for him. No doubt contemplating what she'd gotten herself into.

  He'd thought of the kiss they'd shared at the end of the ceremony. A brush of lips was all it had been, for looks. But he remembered it now.

  Violet reached for the dishtowel and began drying his plate. "Maeve gave us a book with recipes and housekeeping tips as a wedding gift. Wasn't that nice of her?"

  "Uh-huh." He ran his hand over his mouth. And he'd imagined what might have happened if he hadn't slept on the floor last night. If instead, he'd slept beside her and tried to prove his damned 'theory' as she'd called it. Even now, that idea tugged low in his belly.

  He'd replayed their conversation from last night over and over in his head, futilely editing and rewording what he'd been trying to say. Why did he always have to stick his foot in it? Or, think of the right thing to say only hours after he managed to act like an oaf?

  It's fair to say, he'd told her, that men and, apparently, women have physical needs. Yes, he'd actually said apparently, as if he'd been talking about a damned side table in his parlor instead of her. Then he'd followed that with the brilliant insight that marriage was all very simple and scientific if one didn't complicate it with emotion.

  Idiot. Talking about science and simplicity when she'd just walked away from her entire life? There was nothing simple about what she'd just done. It was extraordinary, in fact. And here he sat, at the receiving end of such bravery, terrified by the prospect of what such a woman might be capable of doing to a man whose own courage had deserted him.

  "Does your shoulder bother you?" he heard her ask, dragging him up from his thoughts.

  Only then did he realize he was absently rubbing the chronic ache there. He lowered his hand. "No."

  "I've seen you rub it before, as if it does," she said.

  That she'd noticed such a small gesture surprised him. "I'm just tired." He was, he realized, exhausted.

  She folded the towel. Outside the sound of a wagon passing on the street filled the silence between them as she sat down beside him.

  "I know you're tired, but I hoped we could... talk."

  He sighed. He owed her that, he supposed. "All right. What do you want to talk about?"

  "Let me make you some tea."

  She started to get up, but he stopped her with his hand. The touch they shared was electric and he let her go. "No. Don't bother. I don't need tea. Let's just get it done."

  She bit her lip.

  "I'm sorry," he said, running a hand down his face. "I didn't mean it to sound that way. We can talk."

  "I just thought we could get to know each other a little. Ask a burning question. What do you think?"

  God help me. "Okay," he said.

  "Go ahead. You ask first," she said.

  Surprise froze him. He thought surely she'd be doing the asking first. What did he want to know about her?

  Hell. There was really only one question that had niggled at him since he'd met her. "All right. Why would a woman like you settle for a man like me?"

  She gave a little laugh. He did love the sound of that, and against his will he smiled back at her.

  "You do know, don't you," she said, "that you are, by all accounts, a real catch. I wouldn't use the word 'settle'."

  Relieved that she'd broken the tension, Ethan relaxed a bit. There wasn't a woman in this town who could hold a candle to the woman sitting across from him. And not another one he would have married. "All right, then. You said you were in love once. What happened?"

  She watched him through her lashes and threaded her fingers together on the table. "Well... I was a tomboy growing up. I had brothers. Two of them. And I liked doing what they did. I rode my father's Thoroughbreds when he wasn't looking. I was quite good and as you can imagine, quite opinionated about what girls should be allowed to do. My parents' friends called me Not-So-Shrinking-Violet."

  "Did they?" he asked, with a grin.

  "Oh, yes. Or behind Father's back, 'Edward Bradford's Little Problem,' seeing as how I would, no doubt, be a spinster at the rate I was going."

  Ethan encouraged her with a smile.

  "And I nearly proved them right. But before the war, I did fall in love with a young man named Ruari, a trainer who worked at my father's stables. No one knew. My parents would have exploded. He was Irish, you see. An immigrant. We were utterly wrong for each other according to their standards. Yes, I know," she said. "I told you I wasn't very good at rules. Ruari and I eloped anyway. For the next year, I lived at home with my parents, as if everything was the same, but, of course, it wasn't. Ruari and I met secretly as often as we could.

  "We planned to tell them when I became pregnant, thinking they would forgive us if there was a grandchild. But there never was a baby. And then he was drafted. He'd barely broken in his uniform before he was killed at Antietam."

  "I'm sorry, Violet." Ethan's gaze was steady on her. "So, that's why you think you're barren?"

  "Yes," she said, relieved that she'd spoken it aloud. "That's how I know." She put her hands in her lap. "So, you see? I never told them about us. How could I? I've never told anyone that before you."

  He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Did you think I'd judge you?"

  "Do you?"

  "No. Both of us have had lives before this. Mistakes. Decisions, good and bad. No, Violet, not me."

  She nodded gratefully. "After the war, so many had died and those that remained had their choice of women. And I, with no dowry, no property, and the fact that I was ruined for any man wanting an unspoiled wife, was not high on the list. Baltimore might seem like a large community, but it isn't."

  "You could have revealed your marriage."

  "If I'd wanted the backlash of it. Which I didn't.
" She shook her head. "And so, I decided, I suppose, that I would never marry. Until I saw your advertisement. So, in answer to your question," she said, "of the two of us, between you and me? I got the better bargain."

  He was damned sure she was wrong about that. He was no prize.

  She shook off the memory and said, "My turn."

  He leaned back in his chair, bracing himself for her question.

  "What happened to Ella's mother?"

  She watched the impact of that question push him back in his chair.

  He inhaled deeply. "You'll find this out sooner or later. Her name was Suzanne. She died in a coach accident. Ella was only a few weeks old at the time. She never knew her mother."

  "Oh, Ethan. How terrible for you both."

  He stood and walked to the fire in the grate, stirring it with the poker. The flames ignited with a whoosh and a crackle. "Does that answer your question?" he asked without turning.

  She walked over to him and touched his arm. "You must miss her terribly."

  Ethan turned back to her and let his gaze roam over her face and hair. He said, "You should go to bed, Violet."

  "And you shouldn't sleep on the floor again," she said. "Perhaps tomorrow you'll be moving like you're eighty instead of merely sixty."

  Against his will, he smiled. "I am a little sore," he admitted. "But telling you about Suzanne wasn't a ploy for sympathy."

  She gave his arm a little squeeze. "Well, if it was, you overshot the mark."

  He swallowed thickly and glanced at the bedroom. "I won't touch you unless you ask."

  She nodded and disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the door open.

  Ethan stood near the fire, contemplating his next move for a long time. Should he? Did he dare? He doubted he'd get any sleep at all, lying chastely beside her. But he couldn't sleep on the floor forever, could he?

  He listened to the sounds of her getting ready for bed, the swish of her wrapper as it came off, her hairpins hitting porcelain as she pulled them from her hair. He imagined the shape of her breasts beneath her gown as she plaited her hair, and he felt himself go hard.