Mail Order Cowboy (Love Inspired Historical) (9 page)

“I—I don't know what to say,” she managed at last.

“Why, ‘yes,' of course,” the lumberman said, misunderstanding her struggle for words. “Seems to me you'd be the luckiest female in San Saba Country to get hitched t' a man like my friend Bill Waters.”

Nick thought Milly might leave them without another word, but the remarks had evidently sparked her ire. “Oh, Mr. Dayton, I just know you're teasing me, isn't he, Mr. Waters? Why, Mr. Waters is older than my father was when he died! Excuse me, gentlemen, I have purchases to pick up inside.” She turned back toward the store, still laughing as if she'd been told the most humorous joke ever.

“Well, maybe you ought t' see if her sister has more sense,” Dayton said in a purposely carrying voice as Milly put her first booted foot on the boardwalk. “I hear that Sarah girl kin cook at least.”

The two men guffawed. Nick fought the urge to go
knock both of them flat, but a display of brutish behavior would neither impress Milly nor help her in the long run.

Her composure slipped as soon as she was inside the store. Nick could see she was fighting tears. He wanted to gather her into his arms and hold her and kiss away her distress, but they weren't alone and he didn't want to embarrass her. And he wasn't even completely sure if she would welcome his comfort.

“Steady on,” he said, daring to put a hand on her shoulder. Beneath his fingers, her muscles bunched in suppressed rage. “Those two are mere blowhards. I've seen their ilk before.”

“Those hateful old coots,” Milly whispered. “As if I'd marry Bill Waters to get free lumber for our barn!”

On the way home, he told her about the partial conversation he'd overheard between the two men when he'd entered the general store yesterday, and asked what group of people they'd been talking about.

“Probably former slaves,” Milly guessed. “They were freed because of Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation during the war, but most of them left their owners with nothing, just the clothes on their backs and no idea of how to earn a living.”

“Did your father own slaves?” he asked carefully. England had abolished the trade over fifty years ago, but he'd seen plenty of racial bigotry among the British in India.

“Heavens, no,” she said, then added, “he never would have, but hardly anyone else did around here either. Most slaves in Texas were in the cotton-growing areas,
not on ranches. Oh, goodness, look at the time,” she said, when the grandfather clock in the store chimed three. “I suppose we'd better head home…”

A
fter breakfast Sunday morning, Milly, Sarah and Nick climbed onto the buckboard to attend church in town. Ordinarily, Josh and Bobby would have come along, but Josh still wasn't feeling up to bouncing over the rutted road, and Bobby had offered to stay home with his uncle. Milly suspected Bobby was happy to have the excuse not to attend. Bathing, wearing his good shirt and pants and sitting still for the sermon were not high on his list of favorite activities.

One could never have guessed Nick had been wearing cowboy clothes the last few days and doing menial chores like fence mending and livestock tending, she mused, trying not to steal too many sidelong glances at the Englishman beside her. He was once again the picture of a refined gentleman in his black frock coat, trousers and white shirt and tie. Thank goodness she had been able to wash the bloodstains away!

She knew she also looked well in her Sunday best dress of light blue silk-and-cotton
Merveilleux,
which had been made from a bolt of fabric sent to her mother by Aunt Tilly from New Orleans before the war. They
would be the cynosure of all eyes as she walked into church beside him.

But their fine apparel wasn't what made her heart light and joyous this morning; rather, it was the memory of his pleased reaction to her invitation to attend church with her. She had told him church attendance wasn't obligatory for ranch employees—the Matthewses had no rule that cowhands must attend Sunday services if they would prefer to take their ease in the bunkhouse or elsewhere.

“Oh, but I would be most honored to escort you to church, Milly,” he'd said with that enchanting accent of his and that smile that lit up his blue eyes. “I never missed Sunday services at home in Sussex or in India when I could help it, though my army duties sometimes prevented me.”

“I imagine our little church in Simpson Creek will be somewhat different than what you're used to at home,” she'd responded, imagining stained-glass windows of rainbow hues, walls darkened by age and a minister in formal robes.

“I imagine so,” he said. “The church at Greyshaw was built in Norman times, about 1250, but it's fairly small, too, having been only the chapel of Greyshaw Castle beside it.”

“Built in 1250?” she'd echoed wonderingly. “Why, that's over six centuries old!”

“Yes. My brothers and I used to joke that the vicar was every bit as ancient,” Nick recalled with a grin.

“I'll bet your mother had her hands full keeping the three of you in line,” she'd said.

He looked away just then, as if something she'd said
had troubled him. She didn't want to ask him about it in front of Sarah, though, and in any case, they were drawing near to the church.

 

Every head turned as Nick followed Milly into a pew about midway toward the front of the church, while Sarah went forward to the piano. Now he understood why Milly's sister played hymns so often on the piano at home. Here and there he recognized men he'd met at the general store, who nodded at him, or ladies who'd been present at the Society meeting the day he'd met Milly. Many of the latter waved discreetly at the Matthews ladies as they passed and smiled shyly at him. Only one older woman narrowed her eyes as he and Milly passed her pew. Could this be the infamous Mrs. Detwiler? He noticed Waters and Dayton sitting together in the front of the church, with their families spread out on either side of them. Apparently they saw no conflict in their bigotry and church attendance.

Milly's idea that the Simpson Creek church was “somewhat different” from the Greyshaw chapel had been an understatement, Nick thought as he settled himself by Milly. Yet somehow the simplicity was very appealing. A white frame building with a wooden floor, the church had no stained glass, only clear windows open because of the heat. Even so, many of the ladies wielded their fans.

The piano at which Sarah sat looked time-worn. A simple polished wooden cross graced the wall from the floor nearly to the ceiling at the front of the church. It drew the eye because of the lack of other beautiful
things to compete with. Perhaps that was as it should be, Nick thought.

A man took his place at the front of the church and raised his hands for silence. “Good morning, Simpson Creek residents!” he said. “Our first hymn will be number twenty-six, ‘Blest Be the Tie that Binds.'”

Fabric rustled and wooden pews creaked as everyone got to their feet and Sarah played the opening chord. Nick and Milly had taken the last two spaces in the pew, so there was only one hymnal left. Milly opened it and held it out to him. Deliberately he allowed his fingers to brush hers as he took it from her and held it so they could both see, enjoying the flush of color that rose in her cheeks and the way she cleared her throat, missing the first line of the old hymn.

After that, however, her alto voice, rich and true, blended with his tenor as they sang this song and two more before everyone sat down for the sermon.

Nick forced his mind away from the pleasant rosewater scent Milly wore. As a preacher, Reverend Chadwick lacked the resonant voice and polished speaking style Nick had always associated with men of the cloth, but sincerity shone from his shiny, perspiration-beaded face as he spoke of the Sermon on the Mount and how the townspeople should apply those truths to their living today. Nick felt blessed and encouraged half an hour later when the white-haired man closed the service in prayer.

“Oh, and before you leave,” the preacher added, holding up a hand, “I want to remind everyone of the barn raising at the Matthews ranch next Saturday morning, bright and early. I'm sure you'll all want to come
and help build, not to mention help out in the delicious meals that the ladies will prepare. And if anyone is able to spare any cash, Miss Priscilla Gilmore is accepting donations to help pay for the lumber.” He indicated a pretty strawberry blonde, who flashed a vivacious smile.

That said, he walked down the aisle to the door to shake everyone's hands as they left.

“Your sermon was inspiring, Reverend. I'm glad I was here,” Nick told him.

“And we're glad you're here, too, Mr. Brookfield, and especially pleased that you're helping Milly and Sarah,” the other man said, pumping his hand with enthusiasm. “Please do come back.”

In no apparent hurry to go home, people gathered in front of the church. Nick followed Milly to where her sister was chattering with a trio of ladies.

“Your piano playing was excellent, Miss Sarah,” he complimented her, when there was a break in the conversation.

“Thank you. I guess all those years I tortured Milly and our parents with my practice are finally paying off,” she said with a modest smile.

“Hello, Mr. Brookfield, Sarah… Oh, Milly! I just can't wait for the barn raising! It's going to be so much fun!” exclaimed the bright-eyed strawberry blonde as she dashed down the steps to join the group.

“It's nice of you to collect money for us, Prissy,” Milly said. Nick thought he could detect a hint of uneasiness in Milly about the subject. “I'm not sure anyone has any to spare, but we appreciate the thought—”

“Oh, but you just have to know how to appeal to
those who can give,” the other girl said with a blithe confidence. “For example, the food's going to be free, of course, but at the supper, we're going to auction off the pies and cakes. That'll bring in the money, sure enough—every one of those men has a sweet tooth. And we're posting notices about the barn raising and party to all the neighboring towns.”

“Goodness, Prissy, you have been busy!” Milly praised. “Maybe we should have made
you
president of the Society for the Promotion of Marriage.”

The other girl laughed. “Oh, no, I'd never have thought of your scheme in a million years! But wait, I haven't told you everything! We're going to charge a nickel a dance with any of us ladies, even for the husbands with their wives, though we'll make the husbands pay only once.”

“Prissy! Are you sure Reverend Chadwick will approve of that?” Milly asked.

“Who do you think thought of it?” the other girl retorted with a wink. “He says all these men are free enough with their spare change when they come into town to buy tobacco and visit the saloon. Next Saturday they can contribute to a good cause instead.”

“I've heard again from that man from Buffalo Bayou I told you about
and
the pharmacist from Galveston,” Caroline Wallace announced, joining the group. “Both of them will be arriving in time for the barn raising and have been invited to meet our Society members there. I'm so excited I could squeak!”

Nick thought her excited voice already sounded a little squeaky, but he hoped the coming applicants were everything Miss Wallace wished for.

Nick's back was to the steps, but he could tell by the way the girls straightened and their smiles faded that someone disagreeable was approaching. Sure enough, when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the sour-faced elderly woman bearing down on them. Her expression, Nick decided, looked as if she had just drunk a cup of curdled milk.

Miss Wallace and Miss Gilmore edged away.

“Good morning, Mrs. Detwiler,” Sarah called out in a determinedly cheerful way. “How are you this morning?”

“Mrs. Detwiler, may I present Nicholas Brookfield, who's been helping us out at the ranch?” Milly said, glancing at Nick a little desperately.

He guessed what Milly wanted. “Mrs. Detwiler, I'm honored to make your acquaintance,” he said with a bow that would have done credit to the Prince of Wales, and bestowing a smile on her that would have melted Queen Victoria at her stuffiest. “I'm told you raise the prettiest roses in the county, possibly all of Texas.”

But Mrs. Detwiler was not to be charmed. “I don't know who told you that, but I hope they told you they weren't for your bouquets,” she snapped, then turned. “Miss Matthews, I have a bone to pick with you.”

It was hard to tell which sister she was addressing, for she glared at both. “Me?” Sarah volunteered. “Did I hit some wrong notes in the hymns this morning?”

“Not you. Your sister. Milly Matthews, I asked Reverend Chadwick to speak about this to you discreetly, but he says
he
sees nothing wrong with it, so I suppose it's up to me. I saw you yesterday, riding that horse of
yours bareback like a heathen hussy. It was scandalous, that's what it was, especially in the company of a man,” she said, sharing her glare with Nick. “I told your mother when you were a girl she was wrong to let you do so, but you're much too old to carry on like that now.”

Nick could tell by the way Milly's chin lifted that she was holding in her anger.

“Oh? I'm sorry, I didn't see you, or I would have said hello and introduced Mr. Brookfield then, though I
thought
I saw your curtain flutter as we rode by,” she said.

Nick saw the woman's face darken at the implication she had been spying on them.

“I'm sorry my bareback riding offended you,” Milly went on, “but I'm afraid the saddle burned up with the barn. Mr. Brookfield did offer me his, though,” she added, as if attempting to be strictly accurate.

“Well, you should have accepted it, or better yet, taken your wagon,” Mrs. Detwiler told her. “I'm sure an Englishman is used to more seemly deportment than what you displayed yesterday, aren't you, Mr. Brookfield? Come now, be honest.”

“I find the women of Texas, and especially Miss Milly, utterly refreshing in their conduct, madam,” he told her, keeping a smile pasted on his face with some effort. “She has an excellent seat, that is, she's quite the horsewoman,” he added, afraid the woman would deliberately misunderstand his words.

Stymied, Mrs. Detwiler redoubled her attack on Milly. “It's not just the fact that you're riding bareback,
Milly Matthews, but the indecorous
attire
you wore—that split skirt. I was scandalized! Your poor mother must be have been rolling in her grave.”

Milly's spine became even more rigid, if that were possible. “My mother is in heaven with Jesus,” she said, enunciating every word. “And she sewed that skirt for me.”

Mrs. Detwiler tsk-tsked. “Well, I have done my duty and can say no more if you choose not to listen. Good day, Mr. Brookfield.”

He gave her a bare nod as the woman stalked away with a rustle of black bombazine, then turned back to Milly. There was a sheen in her hazel eyes as her gaze followed Mrs. Detwiler, and her lip quivered.

“That spiteful woman!” Sarah hissed, taking Milly's hand. “Don't pay any attention to her.”

“I know I said having her see me would be half the fun, and I don't care what she thinks of me, but I won't have her criticizing our mother! She was rude to her when she was alive, too.” She swiped angrily at a tear that escaped down her cheek. “I'm sorry, Nick. I'm not normally such a crybaby. You've seen me cry two days in a row now!”

“Stiff upper lip, Miss Milly,” Nick advised, wishing he could kiss her tears away.

She blinked at him. “How do I…”

He thought she was going to ask how on earth she was to regain her composure after the old woman's verbal attack, but then he saw that she was taking him literally, struggling to assume the expression he'd sug
gested. The result made her giggle, and soon all three of them were laughing.

Milly was smiling again. “It's impossible to cry when you're concentrating on keeping your upper lip straight, isn't it?”

“That's the spirit.”