McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [83]
Holt tried for a smile, but fell short. “Best we move on, while there’s still plenty of daylight,” he said, with a shake of his head. “We’d be grateful if you’d sell us some milk, though, and whatever eggs and butter you might be able to spare.”
“Glad to do it,” Bill replied. “I’d just give you those things outright, but winter’s coming on and the money will run low, like it always does. Mary, you put Gideon in the house and bring out what the hens laid this morning.” He turned back to Holt. “I reckon we could let you have half a dozen chickens if you want them.”
Mary hesitated, then turned to do her husband’s bidding. Lorelei felt the other woman’s disappointment as though it were her own; Mrs. Davis longed for company. Leaving Seesaw’s reins to dangle while he continued to monopolize the water trough, she followed as far as the doorway.
The inside of the house was plain but tidy. The walls were lined with shelves of preserves, and the fifty-gallon barrels supporting the worktable next to the stove were probably filled with flour, beans or cornmeal. There was no stove, but the fireplace served for cooking. The bed was of carved wood, covered with a quilt—probably a relic of another life, in a more civilized place. Gideon lay in the center of the mattress, sound asleep.
“Did you see those Indians with your own two eyes?” Mary asked. Until that moment, Lorelei hadn’t realized the other woman knew she was there.
“No,” Lorelei said.
“I lie awake some nights, worrying that they’ll come and scalp us all.” As Mary spoke, she was busily taking eggs from a crock filled with water glass, setting each one carefully in a bowl. “Times like this, I wish we’d stayed in Iowa.”
“You must get pretty lonesome out here,” Lorelei observed, stepping over the high threshold.
Mary dashed at one cheek with the back of her hand and went right on counting out eggs. “Sometimes I think I’ll die of it,” she said, very softly.
Lorelei didn’t know how to respond to that stark admission. She wondered, in fact, what Mary would say if she knew about the safe and easy life Lorelei had left behind in San Antonio. She’d probably think her a fool to throw it all away.
“What’s your name?” Mary asked.
“Lorelei Fellows.”
“That good-looking man, the one who did all the talking—he must be your husband?”
Lorelei felt that odd heat rise in her again, and shook her head. Holt McKettrick, her husband? Now there was a disturbing thought. “I’m not married,” she said.
Mary stopped, stared at her. “Not married?” she asked practically. Then she blushed. “I’m sorry. I’ve got no right asking questions like that.”
Lorelei summoned up a smile, though the mention of Holt and the word husband in the same sentence had shaken her. “It’s all right, Mary. I’m on my way to Mexico, to buy cattle for my ranch. Mr. McKettrick was headed that way, too, so—”
“Where are my manners?” Mary spouted, smiling, when Lorelei’s words fell away like so many pebbles rolling downhill. “Sit yourself down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Lorelei would have given just about anything for tea, but there had been no mention of including Tillie and Melina inside, so she was reluctant. She averted her eyes and caught sight of a large pan of cinnamon buns, cooling on the table. Her mouth watered.
“I don’t think there’s time,” she said at last. “Mr. McKettrick wants to keep moving.” When she looked back at Mary, she saw that the other woman had followed her gaze.
“Nonsense. Men are always in a hurry. You go out there and get your lady friends, and we’ll all four have a chat, whether any of them like it or not.”
Lorelei’s throat tightened. She turned and hurried outside to collect Tillie and Melina. Melina came eagerly, if a little shyly, while Tillie looked wary. Maybe she thought it was a trap, that they were all going to gang up on her and take away the baby.
“Please join us, Tillie,” Lorelei urged gently. “It won’t be a tea party without you.”
“I’ve never been to a tea party,” Tillie said, wavering. “And I’ll bet Pearl ain’t, either.”
Mary was tidying her hair in front of a small