Page 16 of Silver Lining
"It was honest work," she said sharply, taking offense at his expression. "I've done a little bit of everything in my day. I even worked on a ranch way back when. That was down in New Mexico . I helped with the cooking and cleaning in the main house, so it isn't like I learned much about tending cows.
But I did learn that ranching isn't an easy life."
He poured another cup of coffee and watched her clean the plates and spoons they'd used. "I've never known a woman like you," he said finally. Women didn't live the life she described.
Her laugh was husky and appealing in a way he hadn't expected. And when she smiled, her eyes caught a sparkle of firelight. "I've heard that before."
"Last night, you said you didn't want to live in another woman's house."
"I thought about that today," she said, not looking up at him. Since they hadn't camped by a stream tonight, she wiped off their plates with sand and a moistened rag. "That house is always going to be Miss Houser's place."
"Miss Houser would never have been happy living on the ranch. Eventually, I would have had to build a place in town." He didn't know why he was telling her this, except possibly he wanted to make up for blaming her again. Or maybe the reason was less noble; maybe he just wanted to talk about Philadelphia . "I realized that after I wrote the letter you read, while I was recovering from the pox. The house was a mistake."
She stopped scrubbing the stew pot and blinked at him. "You built her a house knowing she wouldn't like it?"
"We disagreed on where we should live," he said, staring into the flames beginning to die under the coffeepot. " Philadelphia preferred to live in town near her father and her friends." And she had believed it more seemly for a banker to be part of the town society and community. "I prefer to live on the ranch where I can continue to manage my land and stock." Where they resided wouldn't be a problem now, nor would the difficulties of juggling banking with ranching.
"See, now there's another problem with husbands," Low Down said, speaking earnestly as if Max had agreed it was a given that husbands were problematical. "She wants one thing, you want another, and so you just go ahead and do it your way. That's what husbands do, and it's one of the reasons why I didn't want one."
"When two people disagree, someone has to make a decision."
"Yeah, and it's you, and you decide your way."
"Look, the reason I mentioned the house was to tell you that Miss Houser wouldn't have liked living five miles outside of town. You don't have to think of the house as another woman's." That wasn't entirely true, as every room had been designed with Philadelphia in mind. At the moment, he regretted raising the subject at all. "Miss Houser never saw the house or stepped foot in it." Another change of topic was needed. Looking at her across the fire, he said, "Tell me about you."
"There's nothing to tell." A shrug lifted her shoulders.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight. How old are you?"
"Thirty-one. Where are you from?"
"Now that one's harder to answer." After stacking the dishes in a pile, she reached for her coffee cup.
"When I was about four, I was sent west on one of those orphan trains. The journey originated in New York City , so that's probably where I'm from. Who knows?" She frowned down at the wedding ring on her left hand. "I was adopted by a family in Missouri , so I usually say I'm from there. I ran away when I was thirteen, and I've been drifting around on my own ever since. End of story."
Max tried to guess what questions his mother would ask about his new wife, what she would expect him to know. "So you have no family?"
"I never thought of the Olsons as family, and they didn't think of me that way. They had four kids of their own and three adopted. We were a labor force, that's all." Lifting her hands, she examined her fingertips.
"For years I had cuts and scrapes and little scars on my fingers from pushing a needle through leather. At the Olson's shop, we made leather goods. Chaps, vests, hats, boots, you name it. But tanning the hides was the worst. I don't ever want to do that again." Alarm flickered in her eyes. "You don't skin cows on your ranch, do you?"
"No." He thought about his sister and Philadelphia and their genteel upbringing and could not imagine them scraping a cow hide. "Did you go to school?"
"Not regular. But I can read and write," she said defensively. "And I know things they don't teach in school. I know how to survive off the land. I can hold my whiskey as good as any man. I know how to stretch a dollar. I ain't afraid of hard work."
As if the conversation had made her angry, she stood and strode into the darkness. Max heard her muttering to Rebecca and Marva Lee while he considered what she had told him and matched her comments to Preacher Jellison's remarks.
He had no idea what his mother and sister would make of her. If it came to that, he wasn't sure what he made of her.
Whatever else she was, he accepted that she was capable and self-reliant. Both nights she'd carried her share of the work as they set up camp. Without discussing it, they had split the tasks as if they'd traveled together before and knew each other's habits well.
Her voice came out of the darkness from somewhere near the picket line. "When are we going to get to the poking?"
Subtle and modest she was not. Max gazed into the flames burning low above the embers. "Maybe tomorrow," he said after clearing his throat.
"Sooner begun, sooner done," she called in a snappish tone. He didn't want to think about it.
