Mercy: Bride of Idaho (American Mail-Order Bride 43) by Jacquie Rogers Page B

to show that you sure enough got his tail feathers up.” 
    Mercy finished off her meal, scrubbed her plate with dirt until all the food particles were gone, and stood, her saddle-sore legs protesting.  “I’ll help Whip with the dishes.  I bet he wouldn’t mind another hand—he looks tired.”
    “You do that, and you’ve just won a friend.  Good idea.”
    “I wonder if Quill has looked at his new chaps yet.”
    “You done a good job on them.”
    “Thank you.  I find that I rather enjoy leatherwork, more so than needlework.”  She took her leave and headed for the chuckwagon, where Whip had dishes from two dozen hands and pots from all the cooking to clean.
    “How about I wash up all those plates for you?”
    “Much obliged,” Whip said as he upended a bucket and sat on the bottom.  “I ain’t as young as I used to be.”
    “Want me to fetch some water?”
    “Got a tub behind the wagon that’s full.  Heat some of that.  If we need more, we’ll get more.”
    She heard a crash and saw that Inky had upended the milk bottle and was lapping his supper with relish.
    “Gol-durn cat.”  Whip scowled at Inky, then after a bit, snapped his dishtowel at him.  “Scat.”
    “Is that all the milk we have?”
    “Naw, I brung a milk cow.  Ain’t enough for the men to drink, but plenty for cooking.”
    Mercy cleaned up the cat’s mess, then dipped a couple gallons of water into a pot and hooked it onto the tripod over the fire.  After, that she neatened up the area—stacked the dishes and lined up the pots for washing.
    “You might as well set a spell while that water’s heating.”  Whip patted a spot beside him on the log.  “My guess is you’ve had a big day, too, what with almost getting killed and all.”
    “You’d be right.”  She dried off her hands and plopped down, regretting such a rash action the moment her backside hit the bark.  “I’ve never ridden longer than an hour in my whole life.  And I’ve never climbed a mountain.”
    “That little pile of rocks.  Hell—pardon my French—even Dog made it up there.  Might make you a little winded, but it ain’t a hard climb, leastways to a young person such as yourself.”
    “And I’ve never been nearly crushed by a boulder.”
    “Or rescued by a man who looked as if he was gonna cart you off to the nearest shady place and have his way with you.”
    She brightened.  That was the best thing she’d heard all day.  “You think so?”
    Whip patted her knee.  “You just make yourself useful around here.  Me and Ike will handle Quill.”
    She’d rather do the handling herself, but she reckoned she should listen to men older and wiser in the way of the world.  And Quill.

Chapter 13
    Quill spent a sleepless night and he couldn’t blame it on the hard ground.  Mercy Eaton wouldn’t let go of his thoughts no matter how he tried to chase her out of his mind.  He wanted her with him and he wanted her gone.  He shoved his chaps and gunbelt to the side, crawled out of the bedroll, then pulled on his boots and pushed his sorry self to standing. 
    What he saw when he glanced to the chuckwagon nearly made him drop his britches.  Mercy tended the griddle over the campfire, smiling radiantly while she flipped flapjacks as if she’d fed roundup crews her entire life.  He could get used to that.  She was sure easy on the eyes, even dressed as a man—although no man would wear a yellow sunbonnet.  Still, she didn’t belong there—a woman like her could be hurt in any number of ways.  She’d already managed to find one.
    Jake walked up and slapped him on the shoulder.  “Looks like that mail-order bride of yours is making herself useful.”
    “She ain’t my bride.  Might marry Harp.  And Whip better enjoy her help while he’s got it because Uncle Ike’s taking her home before noon.  He promised.”
    “Not sure why you wanna send her away, especially if she can help out around here.  Whip’s getting long in the