An Unwilling Husband. Tera Shanley

sore from the saddle, and her shoulder, likely seven shades of purple from shooting that day.

      She glared balefully at the barren stove. Desperate for the day to be at an end, she ate a carrot and a stale piece of bread then escaped to the restful sanctuary of her room. When her head finally hit the pillow, she was already well on her way to sleep.

      * * * *

      Lenny woke her early the next day, no doubt trying to train Maggie’s internal clock to recognize dawn as its new waking hour. Good luck with that. She valued sleep in the mornings and on this one, more than any other, her body ached for more. Every muscle hurt and her hands throbbed where numerous blisters had emptied themselves in the night.

      Lenny made a mystery salve that soothed them a little, but the pain returned with the slightest motion. Until the simplest task had become excruciating, she’d never truly appreciated how much one used their hands.

      Stiffly, she stoked the fire and laid a healthy portion of bacon into an iron skillet. When the fragrant strips of meat were steaming on a pair of dented metal plates, she cooked shredded potatoes and beans in the grease and admired the two small mountains of food she’d made. Maybe she could fend for herself after all.

      The more she moved, the better her aching muscles felt. The minute she stopped for a rest, however, they constricted and begged to remain perfectly still. Like a snake on a cold day, growing slower with the bite of the chill.

      Her motivation was Garret. And when she forgot him for even a moment, Lenny only had to sign “bull” and anger flared, enticing her to work harder, and for longer. She’d show him how wrong he was about her.

      Remembering the ingredients to the new breakfast she’d made that morning proved confusing. She ripped three pieces of paper from her beloved journal and, in great detail, wrote instructions for the meals. In hopes that Garret would never find them, she hid them in the bottom of a kitchen drawer. That ghastly man didn’t need any more ammunition against her.

      While she’d been writing, Lenny had studied her with an amused expression. If only she could explain to the Indian girl that she would learn to help with the ranch to the best of her ability, but she’d do it on her terms. She wasn’t about to change the fundamentals of what made her Maggie for anyone, man or woman.

      With a feverish appetite, she devoured the hot meal and after cleaning up and wrestling her thick hair into a bun, set out to do chores. When the animals had been fed, Lenny pointed to the saddles and brought the horses in from the corral. It took three painful heaves to sling the saddle over Buck’s burly back, but at least she remembered about tightening the cinch this time.

      Another imaginary trail through the wilderness, following Lenny on her paint Indian pony. The establishment of a routine was a welcome one. This ride led in a wide loop around the northernmost parcel of Shaw land and ended in front of the house.

      With the horses tied contentedly to a post out front, she lifted her skirts and hefted a rifle more comfortably than the day before. Riddled with potholes, the hike to the crude gun range proved dangerous to her heeled, leather encased ankles but Lenny seemed patient enough, and waited as she picked her way through the rugged terrain.

      Vigorous hand motions and much pointing. Her teacher had decreed she must work on firing the rifle from a greater distance.

      After she was comfortable with the weapon and a pretty decent shot, the dark headed girl instructed her with a longer, heavier rifle, which required better aim and a steadier arm to hit the targets. It would take time, but given enough practice, she might be a decent markswoman. What would she ever need the skill for, though?

      Lenny took her rabbit hunting. The Indian girl’s buckskin pants and dark cotton shirt, her belt loosely keeping the waist tapered, and her soft moccasins quieted her footsteps when stalking their quarry. Drat the blasted things, her full skirts were not in any way stealthy or quiet, and rustled and swished like the rapids of some angry river.

      Another rabbit raced away. The second one today, scared far too soon to shoot from a reasonable distance. Lenny gave her an exasperated glare, and Maggie smiled in apology and hiked her skirts up, revealing leather shoes with a small heel. Shaking her head, Lenny sighed dramatically.

      Maggie stifled a laugh. “These will never do, will they?”

      Lenny motioned for her to stay put and stalked into the brush. After sitting against a large tree for what seemed like an hour, a shot rang out, and her companion arrived shortly with one plump and very deceased rabbit dangling from her hand. Disgusting. What was she supposed to do with it? She attempted to school her expression so as not to look horrified, but likely failed miserably. Eyes narrowed, Lenny studied her then tossed the rabbit at her feet, took a knife from her belt and handed it, hilt first, to her.

      “No, Lenny. I don’t think I’m ready for this. It’s just a little bunny. Nope. Hmm-mm.” She shook her head vigorously. Her task master waited, arms crossed.

      Apparently the girl had a stubborn streak that rivaled even Garret Shaw’s, because it wasn’t long before Lenny showed her how to gut a bunny. While plodding back to the house, a much lighter bunny in her blood covered hands, something inside her shifted. It was as if she had sloughed off a layer of reserve. Like a sliver of weakness had been left in the pile of bunny innards. When she lived in the city, she never would have imagined in her wildest dreams having the courage or stomach to do something so base.

      But she did. No longer was she the frightened woman who couldn’t do much more than dress herself. As she tried not to let the self-satisfaction show too terribly much on her face, Lenny smiled sunnily at her.

      The triumphant feeling lasted only until they arrived in the kitchen, when Lenny goaded her into skinning the poor creature. Cutting the meat under her mentor’s direction, she started a rabbit and vegetable stew that simmered for the rest of the day. Though the rabbit stew was satisfying at the end of the long day of toil, having experienced the bloody work that had gone into making it, eating it was hard.

      She would get used to it though. She hoped.

      * * * *

      Though I am not long for my bed, Maggie wrote the night of the fourth day, yawning with tiredness, exhilaration compels me to document my thoughts. Pride is a sin, Aunt Margaret always told me. No matter, I cannot help but find my accomplishments of the past few days thrilling. Is it a sin to take pride in the work of one’s hands? I think not.

       From the housemaid who lays the fires in the morning to the butler who oversees serving dinner, Aunt Margaret’s servants performed their duties with quiet efficiency. Certainly they do not have a shining-eyed Indian girl making horns above her head to goad them on in their labors, but Lenny and I now work the same way. Still she does not speak, yet a wealth of conversation in her eyes and expressions guides me through her instruction. Her smiles of praise and silent companionship gladden my heart.

       Today I earned her approval when, not once but three times, I knocked the twig from the table at the longest distance yet with the biggest rifle. So far away were we, it was difficult to tell where the table ended and my target began. Take that, Garret Shaw!

       That insufferable man penetrates my thoughts. He is not here, yet I cannot get away from him. Indeed, thoughts of those eyes of his watching me only spur me on to greatness.

       In the privacy of my journal, I can say this. His presence would be welcome. Despite the man’s chilly nature, I am almost ashamed to admit, sparring with him fires my blood. Most unladylike—I can hear Aunt Margaret now—but he makes me feel alive.

       Thank heavens he will not see my dimwitted failures. A blatant misuse of the damper this morning, the house filled with smoke. Lenny and I running for the yard, coughing up soot. Yesterday, a loaf of bread so unfortunate, it looked like a lava rock displayed by the Boston Society of Natural History. Perhaps by the time Garret returns, the stink of smoke will have dissipated and he will never suspect. One can only hope.

       But, I now can recognize the look in Bossie’s