The Unexpected Wife

“Like most others.”

Frustrated by his lack of interest, she blurted, “Squeezing blood from a turnip would be easier than getting information out of you, Mr. Barrington.”

He glanced at her, his eyes sharp with annoyance. “Not much for chitchat, I suppose.”

“So I am discovering.”

“If you want to talk then go back to San Francisco, Miss Smyth.”

“I don’t wish to rehash what we’ve already discussed, Mr. Barrington.” She sat a little straighter. “I’m not leaving Montana. I’m here to stay.”

Here to stay.

Guilt ate into Matthias. He’d made the only practical decision that he could, but he felt as if were letting Elise down by bringing another woman into the home that he’d built for her.

This asinine plan of Mrs. Clements’s had created trouble he didn’t need.

As they drove closer to his ranch, the idea of having Abby Smyth under his roof was becoming all too real. His place had once seemed a practical size but with each turn of the wagon wheel it seemed to shrink. There’d be no ignoring her when she moved into the cabin.

The fact was he was drawn to Miss Smyth.

He glanced sideways at her. There was never a woman more opposite from his Elise. Elise had been small-boned, while this Abigail was tall and broad-shouldered. Her eyes weren’t smoky or coy but direct and strong.

Elise had always looked her finest when she was in her Sunday best, whereas the simpler clothes suited Miss Smyth. She’d moved stiffly in the yards of fabric yesterday as if the role of a lady had not suited her. But in the calico, she walked with confidence.

Elise had been so young and fresh-faced when they’d moved out here. Her laugh had been quick and when she’d sang it was about the prettiest thing he’d ever heard. She couldn’t cook worth a lick and she burned his share of shirts, but in those days he hadn’t cared.

When he’d gotten the itch to move west, Elise hadn’t wanted to move away from St. Louis. She liked her friends, her social functions and the convenience of a big city. But a homestead in Montana had been a dream of his for years and so he’d worked hard to sell her on the idea. In the end he’d convinced her to go with him.

No one had convinced Miss Smyth to move here. She’d come on her own, which proved either she possessed strength and grit or that she was a fool.

Still, it hadn’t been her strength he’d noticed yesterday when he’d wrapped his hands around her narrow waist and lifted her from the carriage. The full curve of her breasts, her scent, the way his body had hardened when she’d been close—those were the things he’d noticed.

Last night when he’d been lying in the back of the wagon staring at the stars, he’d thought about Miss Smyth. He’d imagined desire in her eyes as he skimmed his hand under her skirt, up the inside of her soft leg. He’d imagined she’d been wet and waiting for him. He’d dreamed of unfastening the buttons between her breasts and pushing the fabric aside to kiss her nipples until they’d hardened. He’d dreamed of driving into her until she’d moaned with desire.

Matthias jerked his attention back to the present. Good Lord, he’d all but forgotten Elise for those few moments. He shifted in his seat, annoyed that he was stiff as a poker.

With Miss Smyth as his only source of help for the foreseeable future, the last thing he needed was to have lust singing in his veins.

Hiring her was the right thing to do. It made good sense. He needed help on the ranch and the boys needed someone to look after them.

But knowing all that didn’t erase the guilt that had burrowed into his bones.

They arrived at the ranch minutes before sunset. Several hours earlier, Abby and the boys had moved from the front of the wagon to a small pallet in the back. Though it had been a relief to move away from the stone-faced Mr. Barrington, her limbs were now stiffer than ever.

Wincing, she rose slowly so as not to wake the boys. Mr. Barrington had already hopped down from the wagon and was unlatching the back gate.

She climbed over the front seat and down the side of the wagon. Her legs felt wobbly as she stamped her feet and tried to get the blood flowing back in them. She grabbed her belongings, still bundled in her grandmother’s tablecloth.

As she scanned the moonlit yard, her gaze settled on her new home. She remembered Mrs. Clements’s description of the Barrington homestead. A fine home, large by Montana standards, with room for a growing family. But as she stared at the house made of roughly hewn logs, her first impression was that it was a shed built to hold tools. “Mr. Barrington, where’s the house?”

“This is it,” he said, his voice gruff.

Stunned, her gaze skimmed back to the small stoop, a tin washbasin hanging by the front door and the shingled roof. Five white chickens scratched in the dirt by a large woodpile and a large stump with an ax driven into its center. In the distance a dog barked. The air had grown cold enough to see her breath.

“Go ahead and have a look inside,” Mr. Barrington said. “There’s a lantern by the front door.”

Hugging her belongings wrapped in her tablecloth, Abby moved to the front porch where she found the lantern and matches. She lit the wick, hoping that with a little extra light the place would acquire charm.

It didn’t.

Faded blue curtains dangled in the two dirt-streaked windows. Flower boxes hung under each window, but each was filled with weeds. The railing beside the front three stairs was sturdy but the front steps creaked as she climbed up to the front door.

She pushed open the front door and glanced briefly down at the threshold. In her dreams, her husband had whisked her up in his arms and carried her over it.

Faced with the reality of her life, she pushed aside the sad, lonely feeling and stepped over it into her new home.

Immediately, she was struck by the strong ashy scent from the cookstove and the stale scent of male. Holding the lantern high, she inspected the cabin.

If the outside were troubling, the inside was truly frightening.

The rectangular room was perhaps thirty feet wide. At one end there was a large bed with rumpled sheets. By their graying color, Abby would have bet they’d not been washed since last summer. At the other end were a cookstove, a small all-purpose table and four chairs.

The stove had gone cold. On the cooktop sat cast-iron pots, one crusted with what looked like the remains of a stew and the other fried eggs. A slab of ham hung from the low-lying ceiling from a hook. To the right there was a washbasin filled with more dirty plates and cups and above it a narrow shelf with a crock filled with salt.

Queasy at the thought of cleaning this mess, Abby set her bundle down on the table and turned toward the other end of the cabin. There was a ladder that led to a loft. She climbed the ladder and inspected the space. It was outfitted with a small pallet.

Every bone in her body ached with weeks of nervous anticipation and travel. She thought longingly about her bed back at her aunt and uncle’s house. The small attic room seemed like a palace now, her small warm bed a haven.

Climbing down, she tried to imagine herself living out the rest of her years in such a place with two growing boys and a man who didn’t want her.

The sound of tiny claws scurrying across the bare wood floor echoed in the cabin. A black rodent disappeared through a hole in the floorboard.

A rat! She screamed and jumped back. Immediately, she began to search around her for any other little beasties that might be lurking.

“Ready to leave yet?” Mr. Barrington’s deep voice sounded directly behind her.

Startled by the sound of his voice, she turned. The man moved as quiet as a cat. “There is a rat in your cabin.”

He held the two sleeping boys in his arms. “A couple, more likely. I’ve not had time to set traps.”

Abby stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

Moving past her, he strode across the room toward the bed. Gently, he lay both children down.

Quinn stirred for a mo

ment. “Pa?”

Mr. Barrington smoothed back the hair off the boy’s face, then tucked the blanket under his chin. “Go on to sleep now, boy, we’re home.”

“Good,” Quinn said.

Mr. Barrington started at each boy a beat longer and then rose. In the dimming light his face was all angles and shadows. “You didn’t answer my question.”

She couldn’t read his expression but there was no missing the challenge in his voice. “What question?”

He took a step forward. “Are you ready to leave?”

Smoothing her damp palms down her skirt she concentrated on keeping her voice steady. “Why should I? The place is lovely.”

He let the seconds tick by, then shook his head. “You’re a bad liar. But I suppose that’s a good thing.”

It was a backhanded compliment at best, still it pleased her.