The Barefoot Bride (2 page)

“Get in,” he said. “We'll talk later.”

Patch climbed up to sit beside him on the cracked leather seat. Seth whipped the big buckskin gelding into a trot, then headed south toward the ranch he and Patch had called home for the past two years.

In the distance they could see the High-wood Mountains, an isolated range about thirty miles long. There, in the foothills about twelve miles from town, his ranch was nestled in a stand of cottonwoods along the river.

Seth spent the better part of the trip home staring at his hands. They weren't the hands of a doctor. They were big and callused and scarred from the calamitous events of long ago that had molded him into the man he was today.

Seth knew what was said about him in town. He had his suspicions about why Patch got into so many fights. He wanted to explain everything to her, to make her understand
why he chose to walk away rather than to face down another man. But he couldn't. All the same, her fighting had to stop.

Seth wasn't sure how to confront his daughter. It seemed lately he couldn't talk to her without setting up her neckhairs. She was growing up. Soon Patricia Wallis Ken-drick would be a woman. Only, at the rate she was going, Patch Kendrick—hoyden, tomboy, pugnacious brat—would be no lady.

The frustration Seth felt made his voice harsh when he spoke. “I thought we agreed you weren't going to fight anymore. What was it this time?”

Patch's lower lip stuck out in a stubborn pout. With the black eye rapidly forcing her right eye shut, it would have been difficult to argue that she hadn't been fighting. Nor could she admit to her father the real reasons she had attacked the preacher's middle boy. So she improvised. “That Ferdie Adams called me a flibbertigibbet, Pa. I couldn't let him get away with that.”

“You know, Patch,” he began, “the things people say—the words they use—can't hurt you.”

“But, Pa! How can you stand it when somebody calls you a—a—bad name?”

There was a long pause before he said,
“Words aren't worth fighting over, Patch.” He took another, even longer pause before he added, “When you're older, when you've seen a little more of life, you'll understand why—”

“I don't understand!” Patch cried in an anguished voice. “And I won't stand for it!”

Seth stopped the buggy abruptly and turned to grab his daughter by the shoulders. He shook her until her blond hair tumbled over her brow and hid her eyes. “Listen to me,” he said in a hard voice. “This fighting has got to stop. You're getting too old to be wrestling with boys in the mud, coming home with black eyes and torn clothes.”

He felt a band tighten around his chest at the sight of his daughter's quivering chin. Patch was blinking furiously to stem tears. As abruptly as he had grabbed her, he released her. With a shaking hand he reached out to straighten the bunched material at her shoulder.

Patch shoved his hand aside and straightened the shirt herself, clamping down on her teeth to still her chin. “Garn, Pa—”

“And that's another thing,” he interrupted, both frustrated by and furious at her refusal to allow him to express the tenderness he felt for her. “I've heard about all the
gams
and
dangs
and
durns
I want to hear from you.
You have to start acting like a lady, Patch. You have to—”

“I ain't never gonna be a lady, Pa!”

Seth opened his mouth to contradict his daughter but snapped it shut again. No, not at the rate she was going. Didn't she want to be a lady? Another look revealed that it was despair rather than defiance he saw in his daughter's wretched blue eyes.

He wanted to pull her into his arms and hug her tight and tell her they would work things out. But he didn't think he could stand it if she pushed him away, as he was certain she would. So he sat without touching her and saw her back stiffen with resolve. No coward, his Patch. She had enough courage for both of them.

“You need a mother, Patch,” he murmured. “A woman to show you how to be a lady. To comb this mop of hair”—he ruffled her tangled blond hair, which was as close to a caress as she was likely to allow, and tucked it behind a dirty ear—”to sew dresses for you, to teach you to cook and how to act.”

“Dang it! We don't need anyone, Pa,” Patch protested. “We manage fine by ourselves.”

Seth didn't argue, just picked up the reins and started the buggy homeward again. He pictured the disorder that reigned at the
ranch house they called home. The barren windows and walls, the dirty dishes stacked in the sink, the laundry that grew in piles until Patch finally gathered it all up and boiled it for an hour with homemade lye soap. She was too young to have the kind of responsibility that had necessarily fallen on her shoulders in a bachelor household.

But Seth had never been able to bring himself to marry again. He had loved Patch's mother in a way he could never love another woman. Nine years after Annarose's death, his memories of her were as vivid as ever. He was yanked from his reverie by an outburst from Patch.

“Garn!” she exclaimed. “Why on earth do you need a wife, Pa? Haven't I done a good job of taking care of things? Maybe I ain't such a good cook, but we haven't starved, have we? The ranch house is a little messy, but so what? We're hardly ever there. And maybe I do dress in trousers, but with the mud in town, a dress wouldn't be the least bit practical. And I know ding-dang well you see Dora at the Medicine Bow Saloon to satisfy your manly lusts.

“See, Pa, you don't need a wife. And I don't need a mother,” she added in case he had missed the point she really wanted to make.

Seth was appalled at Patch's knowledge of his visits to Dora Deveraux. He hadn't imagined she understood enough about what happened between men and women to even suspect what he was doing when he disappeared into town on Saturday nights. Which only served to convince him that something had to be done, and soon, or Patch would be lost beyond redemption.

Only, finding a wife wasn't as simple as it sounded. Not many respectable unmarried women traveled up the Missouri River on their own. Whenever one showed her face in Fort Benton, she was as popular as licorice at the mercantile store. Seth ought to know. He had advertised in the St. Louis paper three times in the past two years for a nurse to work with him. Each time, the woman had come up the river by steamboat and ended up being courted and married within a week of her arrival.

So why don't you advertise for another nurse, and when she arrives here, court her and marry her yourself?

Seth had no time to examine that astounding idea because they had arrived at the ranch. Patch bolted out of the buggy and raced toward the man who stood beside the corral.

“Ethan!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “We're home!”

As if Ethan hadn't seen them driving up the road, Seth thought. He felt that constriction in his chest again as Patch allowed Ethan a quick hug of welcome. Seth quickly repressed the unwanted jab of jealousy. Ethan Hawk was his best friend and for the past six months had been his partner. Still, it hurt to see the way Patch smiled at the younger man as though he hung the moon. That sort of smile ought to be reserved for a girl's father —at least until she found a husband.

As Seth stepped down from the buggy, Ethan started toward him with Patch tucked under his arm and her arm firmly around his waist. They made slow progress because of Ethan's limp, and Seth met them more than halfway. Ethan's walk—long step, halting step, long step, halting step—was ungainly. But put him on a horse, and the man had all the grace of a centaur. Seth couldn't be sorry for Ethan's limp, tragic as it was, because it had been the cause of their meeting each other and the beginning of their friendship.

“The Masked Marauder has been at work again,” Seth said. “He saved the bacon for a couple of miners on the stage from Virginia City.”

“Oh, Ethan, can you just imagine it?” Patch asked in the reverent voice she reserved for anything having to do with the Masked Marauder. “Imagine him dressed all in black, mounted on his black stallion and riding to the rescue. Oh, how I wish I could meet him just once!”

“I trust you won't need rescuing anytime soon, little one,” Ethan replied with a grin.

“Well, of course not,” Patch retorted, pulling herself from his side. “You know I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can,” Ethan agreed. “But there are some chickens out behind the house that can't. So how about spreading some feed for them?”

Patch grimaced. “Dang, I forgot. Sorry, Ethan. I'll do it right away.”

Seth stared after his daughter, marveling at how quickly she had obeyed Ethan, and he fought another stab of jealousy.

“Anybody seriously hurt in the raid?” Ethan asked.

“A bullet in one miner's arm and in another's leg.”

“You'd think the stage line would have heard enough about the renegade Indians around here to put another shotgun rider or two on board,” Ethan said.

“There's an easier solution to the problem/’ Seth said.

“Which is?”

“Put Drake Bassett out of the illegal whiskey-selling business. If there's none of that coffin varnish available to buy, the Indians won't have any use for the gold they're stealing. And the raids on the stage will stop.”

Drake Bassett owned the Medicine Bow Saloon, but he spent most of his time at his office in one of the several warehouses he owned along the levee. To all appearances, he was an honest businessman. It was through Dora Deveraux that Seth had learned about Drake's connection to the illegal whiskey-selling operation that was causing so much trouble.

“Unfortunately, to get to Bassett, you have to go through Pike Hardesty,” Ethan pointed out.

There was a moment when neither man said anything. They were both thinking of the man Ethan had named. A gunfighter and a bully, Pike Hardesty was mean as a rattlesnake on a hot skillet. Thanks to Pike, there was no longer any law in Fort Benton to speak of. He had shot the sheriff in a supposedly fair fight eight months ago. Now the only restraint on Pike's viciousness was
Drake Bassett, a man without morals himself.

“I could take care of Pike,” Ethan said.

“No.”

“It would solve a lot of problems.”

“No,” Seth repeated. “The Masked Marauder seems to have everything well in hand. If the Blackfeet are unsuccessful in their raids, they won't have any gold. And without gold they won't be able to buy that tarantula juice Bassett is pawning off as whiskey.”

They had wandered back over to the corral that held the few mustangs that remained to be gentled and delivered to the army at Fort Shaw.

Ethan braced his boot on the bottom rail of the corral and said, “I notice Patch is sporting another black eye.”

Seth's gray eyes turned bleak. “I'm at my wit's end, Ethan. I've tried everything I can think of to keep her from fighting. I don't know what else to do.”

“You could tell her the truth,” Ethan said in a quiet voice.

Seth faced the younger man. Ethan had sandy brown hair that had bleached in the sun, green eyes above a straight nose, and a wide, full mouth. He should have looked as
young as his twenty-five years. But there were hard edges to Ethan's face; lines bracketed his mouth, and those piercing green eyes had seen sorrow and disillusion and disappointment. Ethan was nearly as tall as Seth, but Ethan's shoulders weren't quite so broad, and he was lean and wiry, where Seth was all muscle and sinew.

Seth stuck his hands in his pockets. “You know I can't tell her anything,” he said. “She wouldn't understand.”

“I think you underestimate Patch,” Ethan countered. “She's got a good head on her shoulders. She could handle it.”

“No,” Seth said. “She's got enough worries as it is, without adding any more. In fact, she's got way too heavy a burden for any kid to carry. She needs a mother, Ethan,” Seth admitted with a sigh.

“That would mean you'd have to take a wife,” Ethan said. “After Annarose … I didn't think you wanted to marry again.”

“I don't,” Seth said flatly. When Annarose died, he had felt grief so strong it had made him want to die too. For a while he had tried very hard to get himself killed. Then Ethan had come along and convinced him he had to live for his daughter's sake. Seth had been forced to build a stone wall around his heart
to protect himself from the pain of living without Annarose. Over the years, his vivid memories of her had forced him to keep the wall strong. There was no way feelings of love for anyone besides his daughter could breach that barrier.

Nonetheless, Seth told Ethan, “I may not want to marry, but I think I need a wife—for Patch's sake.”

“All right. Let's say Patch needs a mother. Let's say you need a wife. Where do you propose to find a woman to fill that role?” Ethan asked.

“I've decided to advertise for a mail-order bride in the St. Louis papers,” Seth answered.

Ethan turned to stare at his friend. “You're joking.”

“I'm perfectly serious. Patch needs the influence of a woman who can turn her into a young lady.”

“Is that really fair to a woman, to marry her just so she can be a mother to your daughter?”

“I'd be giving her a home, feeding her, and clothing her. That sounds like a pretty fair trade to me,” Seth argued. “My face wouldn't be so bad to stare at across the breakfast table.” He cocked a brow and said, “A woman could do a lot worse.”

Ethan smiled crookedly. “Yeah, I suppose so. What about … the personal side of things.”

There was a pause before Seth answered, Tve got Dora. I don't need a wife for that.” He took off his hat and thrust a hand through his hair in a gesture that betrayed his uncertain feelings about what he was contemplating.

“If you're bound and determined on this course, I have a suggestion,” Ethan said. He waited for Seth to nod before he continued, “Put your advertisement in the papers back east.”

Ethan didn't allow Seth to voice an objection, just kept right on talking. “Think about it,” he urged. “You're a lot more likely to get a ‘lady’ if you advertise where there are a lot of them. By the time a woman's spent any time at all in St. Louis, the ‘lady’ gets ironed right out of her. You ought to put an ad in the Boston and New York and Philadelphia papers.”