The Courtship Of Izzy Mccree. Ruth Langan

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       Chapter Two

      “Oh, my. Where to begin.”

      Izzy rolled up her sleeves and set to work. While she waited for the water to heat over the fire, she located a cache of lye soap. She was surprised at such a find, since the cabin smelled as though it hadn’t seen disinfectant in a year. She stacked the dishes alongside the basin, then scrubbed the kitchen table and chairs until the rough wood gleamed. While she worked, strands of her hair slipped from the knot atop her head and began to fall in sticky tendrils around her face. She swiped at them with damp hands before resuming her work.

      When the water was hot enough, she tackled the dishes. As she washed and dried the first plate, she held it up to the firelight. It was a pretty thing, pale and translucent, with one perfect pink rosebud on the rim. She washed a cup and held it up admiringly. It bore the same small rosebud design. As she continued washing, she thought how lovely that here in this rough wilderness, so far from civilization, she had discovered a complete set of matched china. In her life she’d never seen such a thing before. To Izzy, it was an amazing treasure.

      Matthew’s wife must have been a lovely lady. As lovely as her china. No wonder he got so angry at his son. How could anyone be expected to take the place of such a fine woman?

      Matthew. He wasn’t at all what she’d been anticipating. Well, maybe somewhat. He did look like a rough mountain man. The kind of man who would settle in a primitive place, determined to tame it. But from his letter she had expected him to have a tender side. A kind nature. Instead he had already shown himself to be a harsh, unyielding man. One who would order his son to the barn for a thrashing.

      Izzy shuddered. Poor Aaron. Her heart went out to him. She knew only too well what he would have to endure. And now that she knew that he had been the author of the letter, she felt even more sympathy. It was Aaron who had been the kind, sweet, gentle soul revealed in his words. He had probably inherited that sweet nature from his mother.

      She opened a cupboard and carefully stored the precious dishes away, then tackled the pots and pans and utensils, crusted with burned food. These required a great deal more effort, and she immersed them in boiling water and scrubbed until her knuckles were bloody. But at least, for the moment, she had managed to put aside her troubles.

      In the barn Matt crouched beside the lantern, sifting through the packet of mail. Only one held any interest for him. The familiar handwriting had the blood throbbing at his temples as he tore open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. He read it quickly, absorbing first shock, then pain, and then slow, simmering fury. Then, like a man possessed, he read it again, and yet again, until every single word was committed to memory. By the time he’d read it more than a dozen times, he felt the anger beginning to drain away. In its place was a sort of numb acceptance.

      He wondered if old Webster Sutton had felt this way when he’d lost his hand.

      Like Webster, a vital part of him had been torn away, and he’d mourned and suffered and tried to function without it. But he had tempted himself, again and again, with the idea that somehow that vital part would grow back. Now, finally, he had to face the fact that it was lost to him forever. He would never get that part of his life back.

      He should be relieved. He should welcome the numbness, after the pain he’d suffered. But for a few minutes more, he actually found himself wishing he could embrace the pain. Maybe it would be better than what he was feeling now.

      He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the rough, cold wood of the stall. What was he feeling? He couldn’t put a name to it. But maybe the closest thing would be…relief.

      Impossible. He couldn’t be relieved by such cruel news. Still…that was exactly what he was experiencing. It was finally, irrevocably over. No more sleepless nights, wondering, waiting. Now, like it or not, he knew. And though the things he knew were painful, at least, hopefully, he could begin to heal. He could find a way to get on with his life.

      At last he returned the letter to the envelope and shoved it into his pocket.

      His glance fell on another envelope and he opened it more slowly. The handwriting was neat, precise, almost childlike. The words were simple but meaningful. He read this letter with a sort of detached fascination.

      Dear Matthew,

      Your words touched me deeply. I can already see your sweet, motherless children and your lovely, sprawling ranch snuggled in the bosom of the Sierra Nevada. I realize we will be strangers to each other, and that we will have much to learn. But I cannot resist the lure of your family. As soon as I can put my affairs in order, I will begin the journey to our new life together.

      Sincerely,

      Isabella McCree

      The barn door was abruptly yanked open.

      “All right, Pa. The herd’s fine.”

      A gust of cold air fluttered the paper in Matt’s hand.

      Aaron closed the door and turned to face his father. “You can whale away on me if you’d like. I guess I deserve it.”

      Matt took his time folding the letter and lifting the lantern to a post above the stall. Then he studied his son, whose eyes were downcast. At nearly fifteen, Aaron was more man than boy. The years of hard ranch chores had layered muscle on his six-foot frame. If Aaron wanted, Matt knew, he could give his father a hell of a fight. But that thought wouldn’t even occur to Aaron. As firstborn, the СКАЧАТЬ