“I can’t get past the fact that this embarrassment of a man called her his ‘prairie flower.’ ”
Jeremiah slapped the table and their dishes jumped. “God help you, man. She may turn out to be a prairie dog instead. This is why I made my demands known up front. I won’t settle for less than precisely what I want.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Randall said too quickly, challenge creeping into his tone. “Has anybody fallen in love with you yet?”
“Plenty have,” Jeremiah said, staring Randall down. “But I’ve yet to be impressed.”
“What about you, Cartwright?” Stuart asked. “You set all this up—”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Randall interrupted. “Miss Bixby wrote to me and asked if she could bring some brides west. You all said you wanted them. I’m just the messenger.”
“Fine, fine,” Jeremiah said. “But what he wants to know is who is coming for you ? You must have saved the cream of the crop for yourself. I know I would have.”
Randall waved the comment away. “Oh, I’m too old for all that,” he said, knowing that he and Jeremiah were about the same age.
“Boys, some men’s blood runs hotter than others, if you know what I mean,” Jeremiah said. Randall knew exactly what he was getting at, and it took all his composure not to haul back right there at the table and break his nose. “I can’t go another winter without a woman. Maybe our mayor can.”
Bill and Stuart looked at Randall to see what he would do, but he ignored them. He scraped the last bite of his dinner into his mouth and looked over at the bar. Mrs. Healy was watching the exchange anxiously. She was hardly the sort of rough woman one expected to be running a tavern in the middle of nowhere. She dreaded the inevitable fighting, the drunks making a mess. Fate had dealt her a bad hand, to be sure, when her husband was killed on the train while they were en route to California. She found herself stranded in Nebraska, a place she’d probably never even thought to wonder about.
“Mrs. Healy,” Randall said, walking over to her and pulling some coins from his pocket. “Could you wrap up three more of these for me, please? My uncle sends his regards.”
“Be happy to,” she said. He nodded good day to the men, who seemed satisfied that they had won the little competition they had invented for themselves. Sergeant was waiting by the door when Mrs. Healy brought out the food.
Randall pulled the pies home on the sled with Sergeant lying curled around them like a kitchen towel, greedy for their warmth. If Drake was trying to get under Randall’s skin, he was doing a pretty good job. That slippery bastard cherished acting as ringleader to his little band of fools. “I thought maybe he was like this because of losing his wife last year,” Mrs. Healy had told Randall once. “But everybody says he’s always been this way. If that’s true, I’d say his wife is lucky to be in her grave.” Now Randall felt sorry for the unlucky young lady Miss Bixby would find to be Drake’s second wife. He felt responsible, but he wasn’t sure what there was to be done about it.
Back at the soddy Uncle Kellinger was hunched in an armchair next to the stove reading a newspaper. Sergeant dived straight for the horse blankets as Randall carried in the pies.
“Took you long enough,” his uncle said. Randall set one pie on the table and put the other two in the cupboard for tomorrow’s dinner. He put the coffeepot on the stove but didn’t wait for the water to boil. Let the old man fix his own cup for a change.
“I’ve got more work to do in the barn,” Randall said. What difference did it make lying about what he planned to do? His uncle wasn’t likely to come checking on him. Sergeant leapt up when he moved toward the door, but Randall shook his head and pointed toward the blankets.
“You’ve got to stay here this time.” He leaned down and lowered his voice. “And stay out of his
Jeremiah slapped the table and their dishes jumped. “God help you, man. She may turn out to be a prairie dog instead. This is why I made my demands known up front. I won’t settle for less than precisely what I want.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Randall said too quickly, challenge creeping into his tone. “Has anybody fallen in love with you yet?”
“Plenty have,” Jeremiah said, staring Randall down. “But I’ve yet to be impressed.”
“What about you, Cartwright?” Stuart asked. “You set all this up—”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Randall interrupted. “Miss Bixby wrote to me and asked if she could bring some brides west. You all said you wanted them. I’m just the messenger.”
“Fine, fine,” Jeremiah said. “But what he wants to know is who is coming for you ? You must have saved the cream of the crop for yourself. I know I would have.”
Randall waved the comment away. “Oh, I’m too old for all that,” he said, knowing that he and Jeremiah were about the same age.
“Boys, some men’s blood runs hotter than others, if you know what I mean,” Jeremiah said. Randall knew exactly what he was getting at, and it took all his composure not to haul back right there at the table and break his nose. “I can’t go another winter without a woman. Maybe our mayor can.”
Bill and Stuart looked at Randall to see what he would do, but he ignored them. He scraped the last bite of his dinner into his mouth and looked over at the bar. Mrs. Healy was watching the exchange anxiously. She was hardly the sort of rough woman one expected to be running a tavern in the middle of nowhere. She dreaded the inevitable fighting, the drunks making a mess. Fate had dealt her a bad hand, to be sure, when her husband was killed on the train while they were en route to California. She found herself stranded in Nebraska, a place she’d probably never even thought to wonder about.
“Mrs. Healy,” Randall said, walking over to her and pulling some coins from his pocket. “Could you wrap up three more of these for me, please? My uncle sends his regards.”
“Be happy to,” she said. He nodded good day to the men, who seemed satisfied that they had won the little competition they had invented for themselves. Sergeant was waiting by the door when Mrs. Healy brought out the food.
Randall pulled the pies home on the sled with Sergeant lying curled around them like a kitchen towel, greedy for their warmth. If Drake was trying to get under Randall’s skin, he was doing a pretty good job. That slippery bastard cherished acting as ringleader to his little band of fools. “I thought maybe he was like this because of losing his wife last year,” Mrs. Healy had told Randall once. “But everybody says he’s always been this way. If that’s true, I’d say his wife is lucky to be in her grave.” Now Randall felt sorry for the unlucky young lady Miss Bixby would find to be Drake’s second wife. He felt responsible, but he wasn’t sure what there was to be done about it.
Back at the soddy Uncle Kellinger was hunched in an armchair next to the stove reading a newspaper. Sergeant dived straight for the horse blankets as Randall carried in the pies.
“Took you long enough,” his uncle said. Randall set one pie on the table and put the other two in the cupboard for tomorrow’s dinner. He put the coffeepot on the stove but didn’t wait for the water to boil. Let the old man fix his own cup for a change.
“I’ve got more work to do in the barn,” Randall said. What difference did it make lying about what he planned to do? His uncle wasn’t likely to come checking on him. Sergeant leapt up when he moved toward the door, but Randall shook his head and pointed toward the blankets.
“You’ve got to stay here this time.” He leaned down and lowered his voice. “And stay out of his
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