Brianna fixed an appalled stare on the vegetation. He meant to eat
cattails
? The man truly was a lunatic. Brianna didn’t care if they were young, mature, or at any point in between. She absolutely would
not
eat them, and neither would her daughter.
Wheeling away, she scanned the area, praying fervently for a boulder. But of course there wasn’t one. For the last two days, her formerly productive communication with God had somehow been cut off. He didn’t seem to be hearing her anymore. Either that or he was answering her requests with an unequivocal no.
Like it or not, she was up the creek without a rock.
Brianna got a crazy urge to laugh at her twist on the phrase, but she feared she might never stop if she let loose with a single giggle. Instead of giving in to hysteria, she went in search of fuel for her fire, imploring God with every step.
Hello, God, are you up there? I’m in a world of trouble
down here. We’ve been abducted by a maniacal man who plans to sell my child to slave traders. This is no time to be turning a deaf ear. Do something. Please, do something.
When she returned to camp, no bolt of lightning had zigzagged from the sky to strike Paxton dead. Judging by the heaping tin plate beside his blazing fire, he and Daphne had already washed what they’d collected over the afternoon and were now harvesting the cattail shoots. Their excitement suggested that they’d stumbled across countless gold nuggets.
Correction, wrong husband
. It had been her
pretend
spouse who’d had the gold fever.
This
fellow had a penchant for making his fortune the easy way, by stealing little girls for a handsome profit.
Panic mounting, Brianna forced herself to focus on meal preparation. If she failed to produce a halfway-edible supper, Daphne might stage a revolt and eat Paxton’s offerings. The child had taken after Brianna in that way and had a rebellious streak, a cause for ceaseless worry. She didn’t want her daughter to make the same mistakes she had. She tried to set a good example for Daphne by emulating Moira, who’d always been calm, ladylike, and absolutely proper. It made Brianna feel stifled sometimes, but for Daphne’s sake she kept trying. A mutinous nature led to misfortune, disaster, and regrets that never dimmed. She was glad Daphne hadn’t witnessed her lapse in behavior after dinner. Blast David Paxton, anyway. He brought out the worst in her.
Brianna shuddered as she passed his fire to dig through the packs in search of the spade. Cattails? Just the thought of biting into one made her want to gag. Once she found the dratted spade, she set herself to digging a pit. When Paxton spoke from behind her, she jumped as if she’d been stuck with a pin.
“I said I’d do that for you. Why the hell must you be so infernally stubborn?”
According to Sister Theresa, her middle name was stubborn. She glanced over her shoulder. He stood with his feet spread and his arms akimbo, the very picture of masculinity, prepared to overtake and subdue. The setting sun came from behind him, casting his face into shadow and veiling
his eyes. She could see his jaw muscle ticking, though, which told her he was clenching his teeth. She hoped it gave him a toothache.
“I’ve managed on my own for years, sir. I see no reason to change my ways now.”
“I’ll give you a good one. You’re so sore you can barely walk. Digging your own fire pit is silly. My ma would say you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face.”
“Your
ma
is not here. If she were, she’d wash your mouth out with soap.” Not that Brianna believed he had a mother. Monsters like him hatched from rotten eggs. “Please, just leave me to it. I’ve had quite enough of your mocking humor for one day.”
“My
what
?”
“Your
mockery
.” Brianna dug furiously with the spade. She glanced up to make sure Daphne was out of earshot. “I told you the truth—at no small cost to myself, I might add—and you
laughed
at me.”
He swung to walk away. Over his shoulder, he said, “Lady, you wouldn’t recognize the truth if it ran up and bit you on the ass.”
Minutes later Daphne whined, cajoled, and pleaded until Brianna finally gave the child permission to partake of Mr. Paxton’s rabbit stew. It smelled divine, and so far, their abductor had shown no ill effects from eating all the questionable fare. She remained by her own fire, assuring herself that she was entirely happy with burned ham, overcrisp bacon, a hunk of bread, and water. She stiffened when she saw Paxton sauntering over. He carried a tin bowl and cup. With a sigh, he hunkered down beside her. “A peace offering,” he said huskily. “At noon, during story hour, maybe I was a little too hard on you.”
Story hour?
She yearned to smack the bottom of the bowl and send hot stew all over him. As if he sensed her thoughts, he set the bowl of stew and the cup, brimming with aromatic coffee, on the ground between them.
“I’ve had time to mull it over all afternoon, and maybe I’m a bit too stuck on people always telling the truth.” He rested his elbows on his bent knees, broad hands dangling.
“I put you in a hell of a position seven years ago—and then there’s the mess I’ve got you stuck in now. I never meant to herd you into a marriage.” He shoved back his hat. In the feeble light coming from her fire, his eyes looked like liquid silver shot through with sunlight. “I’ve tried to think how you must feel, out here alone with a man you don’t know. I think you’re afraid half the time and frantic the other half. I need to get it fixed in my mind that anyone might lie in some situations—that it’s not really a reflection of your character, but more something you’re doing out of desperation.”
Brianna couldn’t argue. Desperate was precisely how she felt. His expression looked convincingly sincere, and oh, how she wished he were exactly what he pretended to be, a misguided man determined to do the right thing.
“Anyhow.” He looked into the fire and chafed his hands. “I know nothing I say is likely to ease your mind. Truth is, you
are
stuck, and so am I. I have no doubt that Afton will record our marriage at the courthouse Monday morning, making it official. We can’t undo that unless we get a divorce.” His features tightened. “I’m willing to give you one, but first, for Daphne’s sake, can’t we at least try to make this work?”
Brianna studied his profile. As suspicious of him as she was—and God knew she had reason to be—he didn’t appear to be lying. And if he wasn’t, she had it all wrong.
“You don’t have to decide tonight,” he added. “Just rest assured that I have no intention of forcing myself on you, marriage or no marriage. I’ve never used my strength to have my way with a woman, and I sure as hell don’t plan to start now.” He fell silent for a second. “I know there’s a lot about me to criticize, Shamrock. I’m no namby-pamby with fancy manners. My ma did her best to teach me right, but then I came to Colorado, lived with my brothers for a spell, got a spread, and most of my polish wore off. I still have a few good traits, though. I’m not inclined to be overly bossy. I slick up and go to church almost every Sunday. I don’t make a habit of drinking too much, and when I gamble, I’m cautious with my bets. I think, if you’ll give me a chance, you’ll find me halfway tolerable. I have plenty of money to
support you and Daphne. In addition to my wages as a marshal and the profits from my ranch, my brother Ace encouraged me to invest. He’s sharp about stuff like that, and I’ve done well. You and my daughter will never want for anything within reason.”
Brianna couldn’t think what to say. He was either as innocent as a newborn babe, or he was the most accomplished liar she’d ever had the misfortune to meet.
“I’ll leave you to chew on it,” he said, pushing to his feet. “Don’t be afraid to eat the stew. I ate it. That should be proof enough that there’s nothing bad in it.”
Brianna glanced down at the bowl. The aroma made her mouth water.
“I don’t know how you like your coffee, but I’m thinking it’s probably been a spell since you got to enjoy anything sweet, so I added two chunks of sugar. I hope it suits your fancy, and if you want more, make free. The pot will stay hot sitting at the edge of the fire. You can fill your cup as many times as you want, and I left the sugar out.”
Tears burned in Brianna’s eyes. She had an awful feeling that she might have misjudged this man and his intentions.
He started to walk away and then swung back. “Um, one more thing. Daphne approached me during our midday rest stop. She offered to lend me her toothbrush.”
Brianna stiffened, bewildered for an instant, then swamped with dismay.
“She told me you say I’ve got a filthy mouth.” He chuckled, swept off his hat, and smoothed a hand over his long, wind-tousled hair. “You’ve said the same straight to my face, so I knew right off you weren’t complaining about my personal hygiene. Anyway, how about if we strike a bargain? You allow me my little bywords—shit, hell, and damn, stuff like that—and I’ll do my best to leave off saying anything else you find offensive. Does that sound at all workable?”
Brianna’s throat had gone so dry, her larynx felt as if it were stuck.
He held up a finger. “Ass, I forgot ass. I’ve got a bad habit of using that word. I’m going to kick one, or shove something up one, or—well, you probably already know
it’s one of my favorite expressions. I can try to break myself from using it, but quite honestly, I think I’d have more luck trying to pick a sliver out of a porcupine’s tail.”
Brianna found all of his cursing objectionable, but she was in no position to make stipulations. “I dislike having my daughter hear talk like that.”
“Me, too.” He slapped his hat back on his head, worried the grass with his bootheel, and then sighed. “I want her to grow up to be a fine lady.” In the dimming light, it was difficult to read his expression. “I mean really fine, like her mama.”
Brianna was trying to think how she could respond to such a stellar compliment when he added, “Your only real fault is that habit you’ve got of lying, right and left. It’d be real fine if you could work on correcting that. I’ve got a problem with dishonesty, and I think it’s just as bad for Daphne to hear her mother spouting falsehoods as it is for her to hear me cussing.” He rubbed his jaw. “You’ve also got a hair too much starch in your drawers to suit me, but I reckon I’ll get used to that over time.”
Brianna stifled a smile. She didn’t know how he’d managed it, but he had her wanting to laugh. “Is there anything else you think I should work on, Mr. Paxton?”
His forehead creased in a frown. “Since you asked, yes, there is one more thing. My brother brought me up to never strike a woman. In a marriage—or whatever the hell it is we’ve got going on here—I think that should go both ways. No hitting. If I make you mad, then spit, throw things, or express it with words. Don’t take me on as if you’re a man, because sooner or later, I might forget you’re not.”
Brianna could only vaguely recall that moment when she’d slapped him. His mockery of a truth that had been her greatest heartbreak for seven years had momentarily robbed her of good sense. “Point taken.”
“Good.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his tan jeans hugging the flex of ironlike muscle in his thighs. Then he inclined his head, turned to walk away, and called back, “Real good.”
After he left, Brianna took a sip of the coffee and nearly groaned with pleasure. Sugar had been a luxury she couldn’t
afford for far too long. She drank nearly half the cup before turning a dubious gaze on the bowl of stew. It probably had cattails and all manner of other horrid things in it. She wasn’t a cow or goat, happy to eat any old sprig she came across in a field.
After long consideration, she decided she could spoon out bits of rabbit and enjoy those. But she found it impossible to get none of the juice with the meat, and the flavor was so divine, she was soon pressing her spoon against the surface to slurp it down. Then she accidentally got a bite of onion. From that moment, she was lost. She positioned the bowl just beneath her chin and scooped the concoction into her mouth, moaning low in her throat. Definitely onion, she decided, and little bits that tasted like pepper, and oh, sweet Lord, asparagus.
After she emptied the shallow bowl, she wondered if she’d just eaten cattail shoots. Then it occurred to her that she didn’t care. The one thought prevalent in her mind was,
More.
She glanced toward Paxton’s fire, which burned brightly only a few yards away. To her mortification, he was crouched at its opposite side, his face well-defined in the light, watching her with a suppressed smile.
He beckoned her over. “Come on, Shamrock. There’s plenty. Help yourself.”
Her pride tried to assert itself, but the needs of her body won out. She struggled to her feet and walked hesitantly toward his camp, knowing with every step that she was telling him he had won. Given their noon conversation, she half expected him to rub it in. Instead he patted the grass beside Daphne, who sat with a bowl cradled on her lap and ate as if tomorrow might never come. Before Brianna could sink down onto the assigned spot, Paxton relieved her of the bowl and cup and filled each again. He handed her the stew and then broke sugar into the coffee, giving it a brisk stir before presenting it to her.
“Thank you,” Brianna said.
Daphne grinned, her mouth ringed with stew juice. “Lay back your ears, Mama, and dig in.”
* * *
Helping with supper cleanup was difficult for Brianna. Her abused posterior and legs protested with every movement, and her body, long deprived of enough food, now screamed for her to collapse like a well-fed pig to sleep. When all the dishes had been dried and stowed in the packs, Paxton positioned his saddle near his fire, spread a blanket, grabbed Brianna by the elbow, and steered her toward it.
“Sit,” he commanded with a smile in his voice. “Lean back and let the saddle seat support your back. It’s time for another story hour.”
Brianna didn’t miss his reference to her confession earlier that day, which he still believed was a pack of lies, but her abused limbs overcame her inclination to reject the more comfortable seating. Daphne perched on the blanket beside her, and David—oh, dear, it was becoming all too easy for her to think of him as David—stretched out on the ground at the opposite side of the leaping flames.