The Barefoot Bride (4 page)

"Most all mountain girls is strong-spirited," Betty Jane explained. "But most of 'em got the sense to back down when they need to. Chickadee don't got that kind o' sense. When she gits somethin' in her mind, ain't nobody or nothin' that can stop her."

Saxon was thoroughly intrigued. "Where is she now?"

"Well, she brung you, tole us what happened, and then lit out runnin,'" George Franklin said. "Said somethin' about yore horse. Reckon she went after it."

Saxon started to inquire further about the outlandish mountain girl, but the door banged open as someone flung it open.

In its frame, a white wolf at her heels, stood Chickadee McBride.

Chapter 2

Saxon had never seen a girl wander around barefooted, but he had to admit even her dusty feet didn't detract from Chickadee's wholesome charm. She wore a snug homespun shirt that clung to her as beautifully as any satin bodice, and tight buckskin breeches from which hung several raccoon tails. Her hair was a glorious mixture of red, orange, and gold, falling to her shoulders in a wild cascade, with a small twig sticking out of the left side. Her full lips were closed, but Saxon suspected she was suppressing a grin when he saw how her green eyes sparkled. And when he noticed all the freckles on her peachy face, his own smile came readily.

She propped her rifle up against the door and walked into the cabin with a lithe, easy gait, her arms swinging by her sides as if she hadn't a care in the world. When she stopped at the bed, she took hold of Saxon's quilt and yanked it off.

"That bahr git you anywhars else 'sides yore back and shoulder?" Her gaze swept over his nude body.

Saxon snatched the blanket back, confused as to whether the flush he felt creeping up his face stemmed from her casual inspection of him or his reaction to it.

Her lips tilted. "Ain't no need to git red-faced with me, mister. You ain't got nothin' I ain't never seed afore." She slid her arms beneath him to lift him.

Saxon let go of his quilt and grabbed the bedpost. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

She straightened and looked at him as if he were a naughty child. "Aimin' to take you to my place. This here bed's the onliest one Betty Jane and George Franklin's got betwixt 'em, and you ain't gwine stay in it." Again, she bent and tried to haul him into her arms.

Saxon continued to cling to the bedpost, amazed at her strength. He felt thoroughly foolish holding on to the post like some terrified virgin, but there was no way in hell he was going to let her carry him.

"I don't recall saying I
wanted
to stay with you, Miss McBride."

She rolled her eyes. "'Pears to me I'm gwine have to take you outen here a-willin' or not." She took Saxon's wrist and squeezed until his fingers unfurled from around the post. Saxon reached up to yank her hand away, but a wave of pain rolled through his body, weakening his efforts.

Chickadee took both his hands captive and frowned down at him. "I jist want to hep you, mister. But iffen you'd ruther not have my hep, I'll git shed o' you and leave you outen in the woods to tend to yoresef. One thang fer shore though—you
ain't
a-stayin' here!"

Saxon pulled his hands out of her grasp. "It was never my intention to intrude on the Beasleys' hospitality, but I'm perfectly able to walk out of here by myself!"

"Then git up."

Saxon started to do just that when he remembered his nakedness. "Mrs. Beasley, would you mind getting my clothes please?" She handed them to him, and he looked at his three observers expectantly. "Well? Do I have to dress with half the world watching me?"

George Franklin snickered. "You-uns hear what he said? Half the world, and us jist three people."

"Stay and hep him inter his pants, George Franklin," Chickadee said. She muttered something and then laughed as she and Betty Jane left the cabin.

Saxon felt indignant. What right did that half-man girl have to treat him this way? She was undoubtedly the crudest, most ill-mannered human being he'd ever met!

"Reckon you better git into these breeches, son," George Franklin advised. "Chickadee'll come back and git you iffen you ain't out thar soon."

With much aid from George Franklin, Saxon dressed. He cursed the wave of weakness that engulfed him and resisted the temptation to sit back down on the bed. He was a man, and by God, no mountain chit was going to prove otherwise! He made his way unsteadily out of the cabin.

"Chickadee, let him stay, least till his fever's gone," Betty Jane said, watching Saxon totter on the porch step. "It ain't fittin' fer you-uns to be a-stayin' in the same cabin no how. That Saxon Blackwell's a man, and yore a girl."

"He ain't gwine stay here, and that's it. He tries somethin' with me, I'll shoot him. He ain't that bad hurt, and you-uns don't need no outlander to worry over. He's my responsibility, and I aim to—"

"I am no one's responsibility, Miss McBride." Saxon careened off the rickety porch and staggered to Hagen. He opened one of his saddlebags, pulled out a few bills, and handed the money to Betty Jane. "I'm grateful for the care you gave me, Mrs. Beasley. I hope this will cover the cost of the medicine and shoulder bandage."

Her eyes caressed the money before she thrust it back at Saxon. "Them yarbs didn't cost me a thang, and I ain't acceptin' no payment fer that rag wrapped around yore shoulder. 'Sides that, them that's friends don't need no thanky."

"And I am, indeed, honored to have you both as friends," he said to her and her husband. Making a great show of ignoring Chickadee, he turned to Hagen and grabbed the saddle. He lifted his foot to the stirrup, but the pain in his shoulder prevented him from mounting.

Chickadee's dazzling white grin taunted him. "Want a leg up?"

He didn't deign to answer. Scanning his surroundings, he spied a tree stump, led Hagen to it, and stood on it to mount. Without so much as a nod to Chickadee, he clicked to Hagen and rode out of the yard.

He'd only ridden a short way down the flowered path when he shuddered violently. A cold chill, like icy sleet, settled over him before he crashed to the ground.

*

He didn't have to open his eyes to know where he was. Chickadee's image burst into his pulsating head, and he knew without a doubt he was in her cabin and in her bed. Naked again. He stifled his groan of embarrassment.

There was no help for it. He was as weak as hell and knew there was no way he could leave without passing out. Damn that bear! Damn these hills, and damn his cursed body for betraying him at such an inopportune time!

But most of all, damn Chickadee McBride!

"Ain't no use a-pretendin' yore asleep, Saxon Blackwell. I can see yore eyeballs a-twitchin', and I know yore awake."

He opened one eye. She was sitting on the floor atop a bearskin rug, her wolf beside her. He wondered which of the two was the more feral. "Why does everyone keep taking off my pants? My wounds are on my back and shoulder, not my... uh..."

"Yore ass?" Chickadee stood and crossed to the fireplace.

As she opened the lid of her pot, the most nauseating odor Saxon had ever smelled permeated the room. "What are you cooking? Your dirty socks?"

Chickadee stopped stirring and shook the wooden spoon at him. "I ain't a-takin' no more sass offen you, hear? This ain't socks, you worthless cuss. It's greens!"

"It smells awful."

Chickadee sniffed the air. "Smells like pokeweeds to me. And it don't matter how they smell no how. Yer gwine eat 'em."

Saxon punched his pillow. "I don't want any."

Chickadee stuck her spoon into the top of her breeches and went to the bed. Staring up at her, muleheadedness written all over his face, was the most aggravating man she'd ever met. Still, with his muscular body, coal-black hair, straight nose, high cheekbones, and sky-blue eyes, it wasn't too much of an effort to look at him.

She touched the cleft in his chin. "Why ain't you got no beard? I heared about this cure? Well, it says iffen you put cream on yore face and let a cat lick it off, you'll grow a lavish o' hair thar. Ain't you man enough to grow hair withouten no cat to hep you?"

Saxon managed to squelch a string of profanities. "The question, Miss McBride, is why don't
you
have a beard? As masculine as you are, surely you have to shave every morning to keep people from guessing your real sex. Perhaps you have a bit on your chest?"

She slapped her knee and laughed. "Why don't you and me make us a peace? I ain't much fer feudin', and thangs'd be a sight easier betwixt us iffen we could get along whilst yore a-mendin'." She held out her hand.

Warily, Saxon shook it. "How long do you think it'll be before my wounds heal?"

"Well, a-seein' as how yore a outlander and you ain't been a-takin' yore pain too good so fur, it'll prob'ly be—"

"The worst pain I've got right now is you!" Saxon glared at her, his pride hurting more than his injuries. "Good Lord, woman! How the hell would
you
act if a bear shredded
your
back to ribbons?"

"I got more sense'n to leave my gun whar I cain't reach it so's a bahr could git me. And yore back ain't no ribbons. It's got a scratch on it, but it ain't near as bad as yore a-sayin' it is. Yore the complainin'est man I ever—"

"You—"

"Jist last year, we was all a-huntin' this bahr, and ole T.J. Howe? Well, that bahr got him good. Lost his leg, T.J. did, but nary a time did I hear him say nothin' about no pain. He tuk it all like a man."

It was all Saxon could do not to reach up and strangle her.
"I am
a man, Miss McBride. But I'm made of blood, bone, guts, and nerves. I'm
not
made of steel like you mountain people are!"

Chickadee giggled. Her brilliant smile caught him off guard, and despite his tremendous irritation, he couldn't help returning her grin.

"We ain't made o' steel, Saxon Blackwell. We're the same as you. We jist don't bellyache as much." With that, she turned and went back to the hearth. She filled two bowls with the greens and carried them back to the bed.

Saxon grimaced at the meal she placed in his hand. "Isn't there anything else to eat?"

"Sow belly, but it ain't cooked. Want it raw?" She smiled at the look of revulsion on his face and went to sit back down on the rug.

Tentatively, Saxon tasted a bit of the food. It wasn't unpalatable, but the taste was rather strong for his liking. "If you changed the water several times while you cooked these greens, they probably wouldn't be so... so potent."

"No, don't reckon they would. But iffen I was to do that, the pot likker wouldn't be no good."

"Pot liquor?"

"The juice. The cookin' water. Richens the blood y'know." She finished her meal, set her bowl aside, and began to ruffle through her wolf's fur. "Khan's prone to fleas. Ever' now and then I pick 'em offen him. Gits ticks too. You ever shooted ticks offen a wall?"

Saxon placed his bowl on the table by the bed. "No, I've never had the thrill."

"Well, you wait till thur nice and fat, and then you pick 'em offen the animule. Rub 'em in a little sap and they stick real good to the side o' a wall. Once thur up thar, you shoot 'em. Iffen you hit 'em, they splatter all over. Me and T.J. Howe used to have contests up yonder at Misery's ole place, but we shooted up his walls so bad, he got riled. He didn't have no call to git so riled, neither. He warn't even a-livin' at that place no more. Builded hissef a new cabin, but he still guards that ole one jist like he did when he lived in it. Ain't no more'n a broken-down shack, but to hear him tell it, it's a castle."

Rather than being harsh to his ears, her mountain dialect was curiously soothing to Saxon. And her voice had a pleasing lilt to it, almost as if she were singing.

"Saxon? You hear what I said?" She fixed her green eyes on him.

Saxon was hard-pressed to escape their hypnotic spell. "What? Oh. Yes, I heard every word. Who's Misery?"

"Orneriest man ever lived. Ole Misery's jist about as a-grouchin' as you are. His real name's Caleb Brown, but we call him Misery on account o' no one's ever met up with him when he warn't a-totin' some misery or another."

"I thought mountain people didn't complain."

"Most of 'em don't. Course, thur's allus a bad apple. Misery's the bad-un around here."

"So where do you do your tick shooting now?" He rolled to his side so his view of her was better.

"Ain't done none since T.J. Howe lost his leg. Reckon I could do it by mysef, but it ain't fun withouten no lay."

"A lay? So you gamble?" Maybe she really
was
half man, he chuckled to himself.

"Not fer money. Ain't none o' us got too much o' that up here. Afore T.J. Howe lost his leg, the loser'd have to chop the winner's wood. 'Course, now that he ain't got but one leg, I chop his wood fer him fer nothin'. Brang him and his sister, Liza, meat too."

"That's a kind thing for you to do."

"T.J.'d do the same fer me. Folks up here take keer o' one another. Ain't it the same whar yore from?"

"Being neighborly has no specific place in this world."