An Unwilling Husband. Tera Shanley

after Aunt Margaret. Evil of me perhaps, but maybe I’ll feel kinder when the scar on my hand from her furious pecking is gone. I have learned to watch the kettle, on to boil for the laundry. A difficult lesson to be sure, as the green silk dress now sports a large singed patch near the hem. And, that the kitchen knives deserve respect for a reason. Another petticoat is in tatters, gone to make bandages for the knife’s revenge on my hand.

       That I now have the knowledge is the important thing. No one will carry me in this life here. If I need something, I will have to make it or suffer without. I can pull my weight, and will prove my mettle. Four days, and I am finally starting to find my rhythm.

       Chapter 5

      Maggie sucked air through her teeth, laid down the knife she’d used to cut the pie, and gave her bleeding hands a rest again. If only they’d heal so she could get a break from the pain. As usual, Lenny had dutifully slathered her palms with salve this morning, but there had been too much work to be done around the ranch to let her hands rest for long.

      Lenny must have taken pity on her and decided to wait on shooting lessons today. After breakfast she’d wrapped Maggie’s hands and set to teaching her how to make a pie with peach preserves.

      She’d managed not to kill them with her other meals, and sitting there with its steaming golden crust, the finished pie looked decent. Smiling at Lenny across the table, she took a bite.

      Baking then, had proved to be her Achilles heel. This tasted like absolute rubbish. Incredibly frustrating. Would she ever be able to make something tasty?

      From the sour face Lenny made after tasting a bite, she didn’t appreciate the bitter qualities of the pastry either. Perhaps she’d used too much salt.

      Faint hoofbeats against dry ground in the distance brought her chewing to a halt to better hear. Garret wasn’t due back yet. Was she wishfully imagining the sound?

      Lenny gave her a frightened glance, rushed to the window, moved the thin curtains aside, peeked out and froze. By the time Maggie had glided to the window to see what had frightened her friend, Lenny was loading the shorter rifle and pistols. Maggie leaned against the wall and pulled the curtain aside with the barest brush of her fingertips. A stranger approached, wearing leather leggings tucked into fine boots. His button-up cotton shirt accented the imposing breadth of his shoulders.

      Her mouth went dry. What did he want and why was he calling while the men were in town? And what in bloody hell had Lenny—immovable brave Lenny—so frightened?

      Lenny shoved the rifle into her hands. The weapon felt good in her grasp, and her familiarity with it sparked a flicker of pride. Lenny put the pistols down, and with desperate speed unwrapped her bandaged hands. Well, that couldn’t be good.

      The man was close, and Lenny signed and whispered in her language. What in God’s name was the girl trying to say? Her fingers were flying through the gestures. She must have realized it, and slowing down, pointed to herself, put her finger to her lips. She picked up the pistols and motioned for them sneak out the back door and around the house.

      Hopefully, she’d understood the Indian girl well enough because the man was already tying his horse to the post outside. He took a step toward the porch, and she flung the front door open and pointed the rifle at his face. “What do you want?” Maggie heard the steel in her own voice.

      The man put his hands up in the air and slowly backed off the entryway. He was tall. Handsome and thickset, but not from overeating. A man didn’t get such brute strength from eating too much. He had dark blue eyes and sandy blond hair, from what she could see peeking out from under his hat. The feral way in which he looked at her made her think of the cougars she’d read about when she lived in Boston. The man was tame, but just barely.

      “My apologies. I didn’t know anyone was here, miss.”

      “Then what are you doing here?” Damn her voice as it shook!

      “Just came to take a look at the ranch.” The man watched her with the narrow eyed, calculating look of some bird of prey, as if deciding whether to tell her more. “Name’s Wyatt Jennings. My sister’s about to marry Garret Shaw. I was making sure this place was fit to house her.”

      He was lying. Not about the first part; that very well could be true, but the last part held such a false note and was followed by a cocky smile as if he didn’t care whether she believed the lie.

      “Well, it will be very difficult for your sister to marry a man who already has a wife.” She still aimed the rifle at Wyatt but the end of the barrel had dropped to his chest. The gun grew heavier by the moment, and her arms screamed for relief.

      Wyatt’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The look was then replaced by one of unrivaled anger. The venom in his glare made her throat seize up. He was a dangerous man and his attentions, regrettably, focused on her at the moment.

      “You’re married to Garret Shaw?” he asked.

      She gave a slight nod. Slowly.

      “He was in talks with my father and sister to take her as a wife. Why in the hell would he go and marry you instead? You don’t seem his…type,” he ended with a sneer. “My sister comes with a hefty dowry, you see, and everybody knows Shaw is desperate to save this ranch from ruin.” He looked her up and down, lingering on the swell of her bosom. A cold, clammy sweat broke out across the palm of her hands. “I can see your appeal, though. You’re a pretty lady with a right proper accent. Can’t blame a man for wanting you.”

      An icy chill slid down her spine. The way he was inching closer to the porch...

      She raised the gun, aimed it directly at his face again. Her arms protested but found the power to obey with the aid of the adrenaline laced blood that pumped through them. “Get off my land before I blow a hole through you, Mr. Jennings.”

      “Now, Mrs. Shaw. I don’t think you would really want to do that. Not a lady such as yourself.”

      She pulled the hammer back on the gun with a satisfying click. “Don’t try me,” she ground out through gritted teeth.

      The rage was squarely back on Wyatt’s face. He spun and untied his horse. “You know, I heard Shaw and his men are in town for at least a few more days yet.” He mounted his horse then leaned forward and spat into the dirt. “I can’t say I’m all that worried about this news, though. People die around these parts all of the time. Part of life, especially for people like yourself, not built for the terrain. I have a feeling my sister will get her man, and being a betting man, I’d say sooner than later.”

      Wyatt’s threat was sincere. Fear slithered from her spine to settle somewhere in her gut.

      “Since you are alone out here, I think I’ll come callin’ tomorrow. Maybe the next day, too. I think over time you’ll grow to like me, Mrs. Shaw.”

      He wheeled his horse, kicked it into a furious pace, and the shotgun sagged in her shaking arms. Lenny peeked around the corner of the house, nodded to her. While the girl headed to the barn to saddle their horses, she rushed inside to pack a few necessities. Wyatt Jennings might come calling the next day, but she and Lenny had no intention of being there for it. Not without backup.

      * * * *

      She took the main road into town with Lenny at a trot, listening for hoofbeats and hoping to avoid Wyatt Jennings if he were headed in a similar direction. Lenny threw worried looks at her often, but she ignored them. She was too busy trying to pick her way through the maze of her own thoughts.

      Jennings was no doubt a villain, and easily an insufferable ass, but had no reason to lie about Garret’s betrothal to his sister. How silly of her, to assume Garret didn’t have a life before she came bumbling along. Did he love the woman? Was she beautiful, as only a woman willingly chosen by Garret Shaw should be?

      Maybe Jennings’s sister was the reason he’d distanced himself from her. The questions whirled on and on, like a tumbleweed on a windy Texas day. Unable and unwilling