pushed his hand off the lid and gently closed it. “You have no right to go snooping in my things.”
“That’s a trunk full of wine, and it’s in my house, so I’m not snooping.”
“Your house or not, the trunk is mine.” Planting her hands on her hips, she continued, “And while I’m here, this room is mine and you’ll stay out of it.”
He held his stare, all the while wanting to shake her. Ask her why she’d ever felt the need to agree to be a mail-order bride. “While you’re here, you’ll take orders from me. And I order you to dump it out.”
“I will not.”
“Then pack up your stuff,” he said, gesturing to the few things lying on the dresser.
“Why?”
“Because I’m taking you to town.” Ignoring the pang that shot across his stomach, he said, “Chris and Danny Sanders will give you a job peddling alcohol at their saloon. You’re already good at that.”
A flicker of fear crossed her face, but then she crossed her arms. “And who’ll cook for your men? You?” The smile that appeared on her lips was full of conceit. “We’ve made a deal, shook on it. I never go back on my word, and I wouldn’t think a man of your stature would, either.”
Steve’s back teeth clenched. She had him over a barrel, and knew it. He never went back on his word. Her knowing that was enough to infuriate him, but it was another feeling he couldn’t ignore. That of how her flushed cheeks and pursed lips made him want to kiss her like he hadn’t wanted to kiss anyone in years. Tossing aside that thought took will. Deep will. “My men expect three meals a day, morning, noon and night. Good meals. Their clothes washed once a week, the bunkhouse swept and mopped weekly, and this house kept clean.”
“I already agreed to all that.”
She was so smug he searched his mind to come up with other chores. When none appeared, he said, “And there will be no more of your tonic. Not for Rex or anyone else.”
* * *
Mary squeezed her fingers tighter around the brush handle. She should be mad enough to pitch it across the room, but it wasn’t anger she fought to control. It was how he’d looked at her. How his eyes had settled on her lips so completely it made them tingle—just like her insides had when she’d fallen onto his lap back at the train station.
With lightning speed, she crossed the room and shut the door. Her heart was pounding so hard she laid a hand against her chest and the other over the flock of butterflies swarming in her stomach.
Why did he make her insides go so crazy? Even while he yelled at her, ordering her to dispose of the tonic, all she could think of was how the other women on the train had been right. That the cowboys in Kansas were a handsome lot.
“Aw, fairy dust,” she muttered. How could someone in her predicament have such thoughts? Perhaps because despite his handsomeness and her other cauldron of silly thoughts, this was rather a perfect solution for her situation. Not only would she gain finances, she could stock up on her supply of tonic while here. There had been honey and jam in the larder downstairs, which meant there must be more where they came from. Rather than train tickets for her and Maggie, maybe she’d buy another horse and wagon like Da. They’d traveled all over Ohio and Pennsylvania with Buck pulling their wagon.
She and Maggie could do that again. Travel about, selling tonic until they found a suitable place to settle. Perhaps a place with cowboys as handsome as Steve Putnam.
Telling herself that was a marvelous plan, she changed into her nightdress and climbed into the bed that had to be one of the softest and largest she’d even lain in.
Sleep came as quickly as the sunrise. She’d chosen this room just for that purpose, so the first rays of the rising sun would wake her. Although she didn’t like how he turned her inside out—for no one had ever done that to her before—she would not let Steve find fault in anything she did. It would be a challenge, she couldn’t deny that. The only people she’d cooked for were her family. Da had always been in such a hurry, off here or there, he’d rarely said if what he’d eaten was good or not, and as long as Maggie hadn’t had to prepare it, she hadn’t cared what she ate.
A wave of sadness washed over Mary as she folded back the covers and flipped her legs over the edge of the bed. That had been the first night she’d slept without Maggie nearby. Even on the train, while mad at each other, they’d settled down next to each other come nightfall.
Rising, she walked to the window and hoped that wherever Maggie was she was safe and knew they’d soon be together. Despite their differences, they were sisters, twins, and always would be.
Watching the rays of sunlight growing brighter, Mary decided she’d find a way to get a message to Maggie, just to assure her sister all would be well soon. But first, she had a bunch of men to feed. The task wasn’t all that daunting, though. Between Steve’s outdoor root cellar and the kitchen pantry, there was more food than she’d seen in some shops.
She dressed and covered her hair with the same cloth she’d used yesterday, tying it beneath her hair, and then quietly snuck out of her room and headed downstairs. After building a fire in the stove, she made a pot of coffee and then set about making a batch of biscuits. Once they were in the oven, she poured Rex a cup of coffee and pushed the pot to the back of the stove top to stay warm.
After a brief discussion with Rex, who was feeling better this morning, she ventured into the cellar for a large slab of bacon, and then went outside to gather eggs from the fenced-in chicken coop.
That task was easy—gathering eggs, it was the one she’d have to do next that had her a bit nervous. They—her family—had never owned a cow. Rex had said his morning chores included gathering eggs and milking the cow. She knew what to do with the milk once it was in the bucket—how to skim off the cream and make butter, buttermilk, even a soft cheese, but how to get the milk in the bucket was a different story.
She didn’t want to fall short of her duties. That—the fear of falling short in his eyes—must be why Steve affected her so. She’d concluded that this morning, while being as quiet as possible to not wake him.
“Morning, ma’am,” one of the cowboys said as he stopped near the door of the chicken pen. “Is there anything I can do to help you this morning?”
Problem solved. “A matter of fact there is. I have biscuits in the oven, and wouldn’t want them to burn. Would you mind milking the cow?”
“Consider it done,” he said with a grin. “Name’s Walter, Walter Reinhold. You can just call me Walter. Everyone goes by first names around here.”
“In that case, you can call me Mary, and thank you, Walter, I appreciate the help.”
“Not a problem at all, ma’am. I’m glad to be of assistance.”
More than satisfied, she went back into the house to resume preparing a meal Steve would not find any fault in.
All the while she’d cooked, she hadn’t heard any movement upstairs, so was a bit surprised when Steve walked through the kitchen door with the rest of the men. She was a bit flustered, too, at the way her heart picked up an extra beat.
He didn’t say a word, and neither did she. Not to him. The rest of the men were very appreciative of her efforts this morning, and weren’t shy about saying so. She replied to their generous compliments, offered second and third helpings, and considering they were a curious bunch, answered their questions, which were mainly about what she would serve for their next meal.
Other than the cowboy with shaggy brown hair—she recalled his name was Jess Rader—who was curious about other things. “So, what’s your sister’s name?” he asked, spooning eggs into his mouth.
“Maggie.” Hoping to get the subject away from the whole bride scenario—mainly because it had Steve’s brown eyes focused on her, she added, “Actually, it’s Margaret Mary, and my name