The Courtship Of Izzy Mccree. Ruth Langan

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СКАЧАТЬ smile faded. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said my name is—”

      “I heard you, Mrs. McCree. What I’d like to know is what you’re doing on my land, handing me my mail.”

      “What I’m…?” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “It is Miss McCree. And I am here at your invitation, Matthew.”

      At her use of his given name, he shot her a frigid look that had her taking a step back.

      “Now, what’s that supposed to mean, woman?”

      “I came in answer to your letter.” She could tell by the look on his face that none of this was making any sense to him. She sucked in a breath as the realization dawned. “Sweet salvation. You never got my reply to your letter?”

      “Miss McCree, not only did I not get your reply, but I don’t have any idea what letter you’re talking about.”

      “The letter you wrote seeking a wife.”

      “A wife?” His voice thundered, and several of the hounds began to whimper.

      She fumbled in her satchel. When she finally located the paper she’d been seeking, she waved it in front of his nose. “This letter addressed to the First Pennsylvania Congregation, seeking a good woman with the courage to make the journey to your home and assume the care of your family.”

      He barely glanced at the words on the paper. “If this is some sort of joke, I fail to find the humor in it.” He lowered his rifle and turned away. Over his shoulder he called, “Children, get back to your chores. There’s still an hour or so of daylight.”

      “But, Pa…” Aaron, the oldest boy, who stood nearly six feet, seemed torn between obeying his father and dealing with their visitor. “What about the lady?”

      “She can go back where she came from.” Matt pulled himself into the saddle.

      Izzy felt faint For a moment she trembled and feared that she might sink to her knees. Instead, she gathered her courage and found her voice. “That is impossible.”

      Matt stared down at her from the back of his mount. “Why?”

      “Because I spent everything I had to get here.”

      He gave a savage oath, then caught himself when he saw his children watching in silence. He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to one of the boys. “Take our horses to the barn and unsaddle them, Benjamin.”

      “Yes, sir.” The boy grabbed the reins and hurried away.

      To the others Matt said sternly, “Take the lady’s things inside.”

      While the two older ones carried her satchel between them, the youngest one raced ahead to open the cabin door.

      Matt turned the full power of his glare on her. “Come along, Miss McCree. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this.”

      Without waiting for her reply, he strode to the cabin, leaving her to follow behind. She entered the cabin, then paused just inside the door to stare around in dismay.

      The floor was littered with assorted clothing, guns, dog bones and even chickens, hopping and strutting about, leaving a mess in their wake. The windows were layered with so much dust and grime the sunlight could barely filter through. The room smelled of animals, dung and rotted food.

      “Del,” Matt snarled at his youngest. “You let the damned chickens in again. How many times have I told you about this?”

      “But, Pa, if I don’t lock them up, the coyotes will get them while we’re off doing our chores.”

      “Then lock them in the barn where they belong. You heard what I said. Not in the house.” He picked up a broom and sent the chickens squawking and leaping out the doorway. Then, with a sweep of his hand, he cleared the table of all the clutter.

      “Aaron, Clement, as long as we can’t get any more work done, you may as well start supper.”

      “Yes, sir.” The two boys began bustling around the cabin.

      “Sit, Miss McCree.”

      Izzy crossed the room, picking her way through the debris, and ran a hand over the rough wood of the chair before sitting. She watched in fascination while the oldest son removed a hunting knife from his belt, wiped it on his pants and began carving slices from a side of beef that had been roasting on a spit. Blood from the meat sizzled into the fire as he sliced, sending a cloud of steam toward the roof. His brother ladled liquid from a blackened pot hanging over the fire. And the youngest poured glasses of thick, clotted milk, handing one to her.

      “Ah. Buttermilk.” Izzy took a long, grateful swallow. “I must confess I’m parched from my travels.”

      But it wasn’t buttermilk. She nearly gagged as she realized that what she had swallowed was warm, curdled milk. For the space of a few seconds she feared that she would embarrass herself. But after several attempts, she finally managed to get it down, then prayed it would stay down.

      When his fourth child returned from the barn, Matt called them all to the table.

      Izzy stood. “Would you mind if I washed up first?”

      They all looked at her in surprise. Without a word Matt poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and finally located a clean square of linen in a cupboard. Knowing they were all watching made Izzy awkward and clumsy. Her fingers fumbled as she removed her hat and set it aside. With quick, nervous movements she washed her hands, her arms and her face and patted them dry. That done, she made her way to the table and took a seat.

      As they began reaching for the food, Izzy bowed her head and closed her eyes, then whispered a blessing.

      “What’s she doing, Pa?” the youngest asked.

      “Praying.” Matt paused a moment and waited until she opened her eyes before passing her a platter of beef.

      “Why? Is she scared?”

      “Little Bit, some people pray even when they aren’t scared,” the oldest boy said with authority.

      “You’re lying, Aaron.” The youngest turned to Matt. “He’s lying, isn’t he, Pa?”

      “No, Del. Some people pray even when they aren’t afraid. Toss me a biscuit.”

      Izzy stared in surprise as the youngster tossed a biscuit across the table. Matt caught it and popped it into his mouth. “Hard as rocks,” he said after a couple of bites. “Clement, that’s the last time you make the biscuits.”

      “Yes, sir.” Following his father’s lead, the boy ducked his head and continued to shovel food into his mouth.

      While Matt and his children ate, the hounds circled the table, snapping up scraps tossed to them. Occasionally two or three of the dogs would get into a fight over a morsel, until Matt called out a warning. Then the animals would crouch and wait for the next scrap of meat. And the next fight.

      The children behaved no better. They tossed biscuits among themselves. СКАЧАТЬ