The Wrong Cowboy

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.

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