The Wrong Cowboy

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“You do?”

Jackson, already heading back to gather the other team, paused with his gaze on the group still splashing about. “Yeah. I got two boys, five and nine, we moved out here from Wisconsin last year. That was a long trip.”

Stafford hadn’t met the man prior to hiring him and figured it made sense, the man having kids, given the way he’d taken to Marie’s bunch so readily.

“My wife’s name is Marie, too.” Jackson laughed then. “Maybe it’s the name. Marie. I can’t say, but mine is the best wife ever. She’s a dream come true, and there’s few prettier. Although that one comes close.”

Stafford ignored the feelings nettling inside him, almost as if he didn’t want other men looking at Marie and commenting on how pretty she was. He’d felt that way once, about Francine, and was never going to do that to himself again.

Jackson retrieved the other horses, and as soon as the man approached, Stafford, still trying to gain control of his mind, asked, “What are your sons’ names?”

“Jack is the oldest and Henry the youngest.”

“Jack Jackson?” Stafford couldn’t help but ask, glad to have something his mind could snatch up. When they’d been introduced, the man had simply said to call him Jackson.

“No.” The other man laughed as he started hitching his team to the freight wagon. “Jackson’s just the name I go by. My real name is William Borgeson.”

Buckling harnesses, Stafford asked, “How do you get Jackson out of that?”

“My folks had nine girls before I came along. My father’s name was Jack, so the entire town took to calling me Jack’s son. It stuck. I was about ten before I learned my real name was William.”

“That’s an interesting story.”

The female voice, all soft and tender, caught Stafford so off guard he lost his hold on the drawbar yoke of the singletree harness, which promptly fell and smashed the big toe on his left foot. He almost cursed. The expletive didn’t leave his lips because his breath had caught again, sat there in his chest as though it didn’t have anything better to do than sting as sharply as his toe.

Marie was wet from top to bottom and was finger-combing her long hair over one shoulder. Her hands slid all the way to the ends, which hung near her waist, and her wet dress—once a pale blue, now much darker—and white pinafore clung to her in ways dresses shouldn’t cling. Not while he was looking, anyway.

“Thank you, Miss,” Jackson answered, hitching the yoke to the harness of his team. “Now that my father has passed on, the name has a bit more meaning for me, and it’s pretty much the only thing I answer to.” Chuckling he added, “Other than to my wife. She can call me anything she wants and I come a-running.”

Toe throbbing and lungs burning, Stafford wasn’t in any mood to hear how happily married the other man was, no matter how he got his name. He didn’t want to think of Marie being a wife, either, not to anyone. It would be nice, though, if his partner was here right about now. Then Stafford could wash his hands of this entire mess and not have to sit beside Marie for the next several hours.

“Get the kids loaded up,” he said, gruffly. “With any luck, we’ll be home before dark.”

Luck, it appeared, had left him so far behind he might never see it again. A couple of hours later, the freight wagon cracked a hub, and though they got it fixed, it was too late to take off again, even though he was so close to home he might be able to see it if they were atop a hill instead of in another river valley. And sitting next to Marie had been even more disagreeable than he’d imagined. This time, to keep the children occupied, with a sweet, perfect voice, she’d sung songs with them. Jaunty and silly tunes that had them all laughing and encouraging him to join in.

He hadn’t, of course, and he’d bitten his lip so many times to keep from grinning there probably wasn’t any skin left on his bottom one. His sister Camellia had been the singer in his family. She was married now, living down by Galveston, and he couldn’t help but wonder how she was doing.

It seemed everything had him thinking about his family, his home, and the bottom line was he didn’t like it. He’d rid himself of those memories at the same time he’d erased the ones of Francine and how she’d chosen Sterling over him. For ten years he’d gotten along fine without those reminiscences and didn’t need them back. The few times he’d seen his family since leaving home, he’d made new memories. They were enough.

Furthermore, it seemed to him that while he and Jackson had been working on the hub, Marie could have been gathering wood, lighting a fire and rustling up something for supper—the wagon was full of food. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d led the kids into the shade and sat there reading to them and watching as they wrote on their slates. Schooling was fine, but when there was work to be done, that’s what should come first.

“Terrance,” Stafford yelled as he replaced the tools in the box beneath the wagon seat. “You and Samuel gather some wood for a fire.”

The boys instantly jumped to follow his orders, but Marie stood, too, and took Terrance by the arm. Stafford was too far away to hear what she said, however, the way both Terrance and Samuel bowed their heads he caught the gist of it.

Sitting next to her for hours on end—including those while her hair and clothes dried, filling the hot air that had circled around him with a flowery scent—his mind bringing up memories as if it was turning the pages of an old book, not to mention the broken hub and the heat, had taken their toll. Usually a tolerant man—well somewhat tolerant—he couldn’t put up with anything else. Shoving the box back in place he marched toward the trees.

She met him at the fringe of the shade. “I will not allow—”

His growl caused her to pause, but not for long.

After taking a breath she continued. “Have you forgotten what happened this morning?” she asked, red faced and snippy. “The snake?”

He’d be dead in his grave and still remembering everything about the snake incident. Taking out his gun, he stepped around the children and fired all six bullets into the underbrush. He spun around as the echoes were still bouncing. The two girls were peeking out from behind Marie with their hands over their ears, while the boys were clapping and grinning.

Stafford nodded to them before he lifted his gaze to her. “If there were any snakes, they’re hightailing it for safer ground now.” He holstered his gun. “Terrance, you and Samuel gather some wood.”

The boys looked up at Marie. Stafford noticed that out of the corner of his eyes. The rest of his gaze was locked on hers in a rather steely battle. Her glare didn’t waver, therefore, he narrowed his eyes and gave her a good hard stare.

It took a moment or two, but eventually, with a slow lowering of those long lashes, she glanced toward the two waiting boys. “Stay together and watch for snakes.”

“Yes’um,” they agreed, flying around him.

While Stafford took a moment to breathe—yes, he’d been holding his breath again—Marie sent the other children off toward the wagons with a few gentle words before her glare returned to him.

“That was not necessary,” she seethed between clenched teeth.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “If you’d have thought to gather firewood, I wouldn’t have found it necessary to ask.”

A frown flashed upon her brows. “Thought to gather firewood? Why would I have thought of that?”

“To build a fire?” he asked mockingly.

“For what? It’s still a hundred degrees out. No one’s cold.”

She couldn’t possibly be this dense. “To cook on?” he asked, half wondering if it really was a question.

Pausing, as if gathering her thoughts, she said, “Oh.”

“You do know what that is?” he asked. “Cooking?”

“Yes,” she snapped.

“Then why didn’t you?” he asked as she started walking toward the wagons. Stafford hadn’t completely expected her to cook, yet it seemed to him that most women would have. Catching up to her, he asked, “Why didn’t you prepare supper while we fixed the wagon?”

She stopped and hands on her hips, glared at him again. “Because I am a nursemaid, Mr. Burleson, not a cook.”

He didn’t miss the emphasis she put on his name. “So?”

“So, nursemaids don’t cook.”

Realization clicked inside his head. Maybe luck was on his side. “Don’t or can’t?”

She continued to glare.

“I thought you graduated at the top of your class.”

“I did. Nursemaid classes.”

“And feeding children isn’t part of taking care of them?” He shook his head then, even as another question formed. “Who do you think will be cooking for the children once we arrive at my—M-Mick’s house?”

“The cook, of course.”

Stafford took great pleasure in stating, “Mick doesn’t have a cook.”

Her expression was a cross between shock and horror. “He doesn’t?”

“Nope.” Having hot meals waiting for him at home was just one of the many things Mick proclaimed a wife would do, and knowing that wasn’t about to happen had Stafford’s mood growing more cheerful by the second.

“Who cooks for him?”

“He cooks for himself.” Seeing her frown deepening had Stafford adding, “Once in a while he eats over at my place.”

“Your place?”

He nodded.

“I thought you said—” She stopped to square her shoulders. “Don’t you live with Mick—Mr. Wagner?”

Shoot, he’d forgotten about that. Then he’d been too happy to see her look of shock to explain everything fully. “We live on the same ranch, in different houses.”

Frowning, she said, “Oh,” and then asked, “Who cooks for you?”

The older boys had brought an armload of wood to Jackson, who was busy digging a fire hole, and Stafford started walking that way. “Me.”

Marie was certain her stomach had landed on the ground near her heels. Her entire being sagged near there, too. No cook? That possibility had never occurred to her. Everyone had a cook. Everyone she’d ever worked for, anyway. Miss Wentworth had assured her it would be that way. Nursemaids weren’t expected to cook.