Lily’d agreed to quite a lot when she accepted Jackson Bridge’s offer two days ago. Minding Georgie. Keeping house and a tacitly implied watchful eye on Mrs. Phipps. But being complicit in a man’s death?
No, sir. Not if she could stop it.
She turned from the kitchen window, wiping her damp hands on her apron. “Georgie, I need to run outside. Stay here, please.”
“Yes’m.” Georgie didn’t look up from her perch at the kitchen table, where she tapped a wooden spoon against eight jars Lily had filled with different levels of water. Georgie’s favorite, the one filled one-eighth of the way, was as close to high C as Lily could manage, and the other seven jars sounded enough like the other notes on the C major scale that Lily had attempted solfège and taught Georgie a few tunes.
Lily paused at the door. “You keep on singing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ all right?”
“I’m not playing that song anymore, because I don’t want a lamb.” Georgie thunked the top of the E-note jar. “I want two birds and a mama.”
And didn’t they all know it. But no one dared mention Georgie’s earlier suggestion that Lily become her mother, not after the glower that purpled Jackson’s face.
Lily would no doubt make him scowl again in about thirty seconds. She stomped to the closest corral, where Jackson showed every indication of wanting to die.
He couldn’t miss seeing her and the voluminous folds of her orange-and-white plaid dress, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Granted, if he tore his attention from the rearing bay mustang confined in the corral with him, he could be stomped to death. How did he manage to control it, tethering it with one hand while his other arm gripped a heavy saddle?
Pride, that was how. And pride went before a fall, didn’t it? Even if it was rather impressive, the way he handled the mustang. Lily’s cheeks heated.
Still, the man had nothing to prove. Lily climbed on the lowest rail of the rough-hewn corral, her boots hooking on the narrow mesquite. Maybe if he saw her, he’d stop. Jackson shouldn’t be alone with this wild beast. Its forelegs were hobbled, true, but it couldn’t seem to keep four hooves on the ground at once.
Jackson tossed the saddle atop the bay. Reached under its belly to cinch it in place. The saddle stayed put, but the bay reared against the foreign weight. A hoof struck an inch from Jackson’s toe. Lily clutched the rail so hard a splinter pierced her palm.
“Jackson Bridge, you want to leave Georgie an orphan?”
He glanced at her before he refocused on the bay. “What’re you doing here, Red?”
“You shouldn’t be doing that alone.” The horse reared again. Strange noises escaped its throat that sent goose pimples over her flesh.
Jackson didn’t flinch, however. “Spent much time breaking horses in Boston, Red?”
Lily snorted, sounding like the mustang. Of course she hadn’t broken a horse, but in the forty-eight hours she and Delia had resided at Bridge Ranch, her gaze had often drifted to Jackson at work—not because he was handsome, of course, but because the corral he favored was visible from the kitchen window. He’d broken half a dozen four-year-old mustangs yesterday. But every other time she’d peeked, there were others nearby to lend assistance.
Not ten minutes ago, Jackson was helped by a skinny fellow she’d met yesterday with the ironic name of Lard Jones. Lard wasn’t around now, although plenty of other ranch hands gathered around now that she was outside. Unlike Jackson, they gave her their attention, forgetting their tasks. Meanwhile, Jackson was nearly pummeled by the bay.
“Wait for Lard before you get killed. And my name isn’t Red.” Though she didn’t mind the nickname. When he called her Red it caused her stomach to whoosh.
“I’ve got a buyer for fifty gentled horses. No time to waste.” His lips curved into a saucy smile. “Although I appreciate your concern, Miss Red.”
If he weren’t such an upstanding widower who didn’t like saloon gals, she might get the impression he was flirting with her. But that was impossible, so he must be mocking her. A stinging sensation prickled her innards. “Fine. Get stomped on by that horse. I won’t save you. More supper for the rest of us.”
The man had the nerve to laugh. So did masculine voices behind her. Fred, Lard, and two ranch hands lingered behind her, grins splitting their sun-worn faces. Lard rested his blistered hand on the top of the corral. “You need saving, boss?”
“Not from the horse.” Jackson’s smile grew.
Lily wouldn’t bother them anymore, then. “Just because I watch your daughter doesn’t mean I’ll tend your ill-gotten wounds.”
“Ain’t worth gettin’ hurt then, boss, if you cain’t get a lady to tend you!” Lard howled.
Lily flushed hotter. Jackson laughed, and the horse yanked him off balance. He managed to hold on, though, while the mustang tugged him around the corral.
Not that she’d laugh at his expense, as he had hers. But she couldn’t help smiling while he regained control. He lost his hat in the scuffle, but no body parts. When he managed to stand, every inch of him was caked in dirt.
Except his teeth, which he flashed in a triumphant smile. “I’m still alive, Red. No need to refuse to tend me.”
“I’ll find something to refuse. Like scrubbing those filthy clothes.”
The men guffawed. The only decent creature out here was the mustang. She spun to return to the house, but the kitchen door scratched open, spilling Georgie, then Delia.
“Martha’s resting.” Delia spoke to Lily, but her shy smile was for Fred.
“Opera rail!” Georgie climbed up the corral rails like a squirrel scrambling a tree.
Oh no she didn’t. Lily gripped the girl around the middle before she could reach the top bar, the “opera” rail, the so-called best seat in the house. “It’s too dangerous now.”
Pausing from his match of wills with the mustang, Jackson smiled at his daughter. “You stay with R—Miss Lily. I need to concentrate now.”
“Yessir,” Georgie said. But Lily knew he wasn’t just talking to his daughter. She’d interrupted him, and although he’d been amused enough to laugh at her, he didn’t need any more of her interference. Her molars ground together.
She should go in the house. Stir the soup. But then he looked at her with the same sweetness he’d bestowed on his daughter, and the chip of ice in her chest thawed.
“It’s been a long time since I teased a pretty lady. Sorry if I overdid it, Red.”
In one fluid motion, Jackson managed to mount the bucking mustang. She couldn’t look anywhere else, much less move her feet. Something kept her clutching the rail. Worry, maybe, or the impressive sight of him taming the horse like he was born to it.
When the bay reared high enough to throw Jackson, pain stabbed Lily’s throat. Jackson rolled away from the powerful hooves and remounted, his face set with determination. The ache spread to Lily’s chest and robbed her of breath.
He’s fine. Unhurt. But the ache didn’t stop, spreading with scissor-like fingers that snipped open the sewn-up pockets of pain she’d hidden in her heart. Things she’d dreamt of as a girl, when Ma was alive, ran unleashed through her bloodstream.
“Someday I’ll have a house and be a mama, too,” she’d told Ma when they dressed and undressed her dolls together. “We can play babies all day and sing in the church. Will you hear me sing, Ma?”
“Oh yes, I love to hear you sing.” Ma had smiled. “And I couldn’t ask for better than you singing praise to God in His house.”
Lily’s hand fisted over her mouth, holding back the memories. She didn’t want those things anymore. Couldn’t want them. She wanted to sing and earn enough money to not need anyone else.
But if Ma had lived, or if Lily hadn’t had to protect Delia, maybe those childhood dreams might have come true. This is what she might have wanted.
This, right here. Not the bucking horse, of course, but the sense of home, family, and honest labor. Watching her man at his work, feeling proud and worried. With her child in her arms, her supper bubbling on the stove inside.
But Jackson wasn’t her man. Far from it. And she was on the path to a far different life.
She was drawn to Jackson. There was no use denying it. But it didn’t have to change everything.
Well, maybe one thing. Lord, don’t let him break his neck.
She hadn’t prayed since Pa died. But it felt somehow right—if not terrifying—to start again.
Quirt, spurs, rope, and bare-knuckled grip. Jackson’s arms, legs, and feet worked together, every muscle straining to keep him centered on the saddle while teaching the bay that bucking earned a consequence.
She reared hard, jarring his neck and shoulders. If he let her get ahead of him, he’d fall and have to start again.
Something changed. The mare’s muscles twitched, but she slowed to a walk and then a standstill. Jackson’s vision still swam, as if she continued to buck, but the worst was done. He rubbed the mare’s broad neck. “Thatta girl. Now we’re friends.”
Only then did he look up to the group clinging to the corral rails. They’d stayed to watch, all of them. But his gaze glued to his daughter, snuggled in Lily’s arms. Something both ached and blossomed in him at the sweet sight.
Lard hopped the corral rails and took the reins. “This’un deserves a treat, I reckon. With her spirit, she may make a fine cow pony yet.”
“Agreed.” Jackson dismounted, wincing at the pain shooting up his leg. Everything hurt, from the crown of his head to his soles. He couldn’t turn his head, but tomorrow would be worse. Sleeping on straw didn’t help a lick, either.
Fred and Delia congratulated him then ambled away like they were on a Sunday stroll. Georgie wiggled from Lily’s arms and ran into the house, leaving him alone with Lily. The awkwardness between them was as tangible a barrier as the corral.
Her hands fidgeted. What angered her—his being in the corral alone or his teasing? She turned to leave, but Jackson didn’t want her to go. Didn’t want her angry with him.
“I am sorry for teasing. Honest.” His words held her back.
She hadn’t quite forgiven him. It was clear in the firm set of her jaw. But the way her shoulders relaxed indicated something was defrosting. “You may not have needed saving, but I’m still not washing those britches.”
His laugh started in his gut, a bigger belly laugh than he’d had in a long while. It helped distract him from the pain clamoring over the rail caused him. “Good thing, because they’ll get filthy again tomorrow.”
She turned, her orange dress swinging in a wide arc. “Is the bay for the order you got for fifty horses?”
“Yep. The more horses we break and cattle we sell, the more money we make.” He paused at the pump. The cold water soothed his blistered palms like a balm.
“Because you have to reimburse Martha for Uncle Uriah’s fee. I am sorry.” Lily’s shoulders were stiff.
Ah, that still stuck in her craw. “That’s not what I meant. Here. Have a seat.” He gestured to chairs on the porch.
“I have to stir the soup.”
“Then stir the soup and come back out. Please.”
A muscle worked in her cheek, as if she meant to refuse, but she mounted the porch steps and entered the house. He kicked dust off his boots and sat in one of the comb-back Windsor chairs Paloma insisted they needed once the house was finished—and she’d been right, of course. Sitting here, enjoying the land and sky, was a peaceful gift.
In a minute, Lily returned with a glass of a daffodil-hued concoction. Lemonade? They hadn’t seen a lemon in ages, so it couldn’t be, but his mouth watered for it. Then the tart-sweet scent of citrus met his dust-filled nostrils. “How?”
“I found lemon oil and a few dried lemons in the cellar.” Lily shrugged when he took the glass from her. “It’s not as good as fresh.”
“It’s perfect.” As tangy and refreshing as if it had come from fresh-squeezed fruit. “Thanks.”
Her seat creaked under her dainty frame. “It’s the least I can do. We appeared here uninvited and unwelcome, with a hefty price tag attached. You’ll have to break extra horses to pay for it.”
“Red.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “You and Delia are welcome here. What happened with your uncle and my aunt wasn’t your fault and you shouldn’t have to pay for it.”
“You shouldn’t either.” Her blue eyes flashed.
“I don’t want your money.” It seemed the best way to unpurse her lips was to tease her, so he grinned. “One day when you’re famous, tell people about my beef and horses. Is that fair?”
He hadn’t heard her sing, not really. She’d sung to Georgie the past two days, amusing, made-up songs about washing her face and going to sleep. She’d sounded pretty, but it was clear she held back. Curiosity to hear her full, rich voice itched at him like ragweed.
Her voice was probably as beautiful as she was. Jackson startled at the thought and hid his discomfiture in a gulp of lemonade.
“When I’m famous?” A teasing smile replaced her frown—success. “I suppose when I sing at the White House someday, if the president asks where he can find a nice roast? Sure, I’ll mention your name.”
Good thing he hadn’t yet taken another swig of the lemonade, or he’d have spurted it out laughing. “Mighty kind, ma’am. It’d be fine to sell stock in Washington.”
“Why couldn’t you? Fred told Delia you’ve sold cattle to California and even the West Indies. They’re a lot farther than the capital.”
“It’s a matter of demand. Not much desire for beef up north.” The teasing was over, but he didn’t want to end the conversation. He settled deeper into the chair and took another sip of the improvised lemonade. “If it changes someday, I’ll be ready. If it doesn’t, God’ll give me another way.”
Her grip tightened on the arms of her chair. “My Ma used to say something like that. God makes new paths when we lose the old ones.”
“I believe it. Don’t you?”
“I didn’t. Now I think I do.” She shrugged. “I thought about what you said, God providing me with a voice. You’re right. I haven’t gone hungry. God’s helped me. Just not the way I thought He would.”
Something in Jackson warmed. “Sometimes that’s the way of it.”
“I’ve been so frustrated by Uncle Uriah. I think I should pray for him.”
Amazing. God was working in her. Maybe they should pray together. Now.
Then she scooted to the edge of her chair and tipped her head, like a robin listening for worms. “Hear that?”
Georgie, her tiny voice carrying through the kitchen window behind them. Singing and banging glass. Jars? La-la-la. He chuckled. “That’s sweet. You taught her?”
“I taught her solfège. Do-re-mi.” Lily pinked with pleasure. “She sounds so innocent.”
Georgie stopped la-ing and switched to the familiar tune of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” But the words she sang had nothing to do with lambs.
“I want birds and a new mama, new mama, new mama. I want birds and a new mama. And a baby bro-ther.”
His ears went hot.
Lily’s cheeks were as bright in hue as her hair. “I didn’t teach her that—”
The crash of glass split the air, then silence. Lily hopped from the chair.
Jackson was on Lily’s heels but hesitated at the threshold because of his grimy attire. He could see enough. Georgie stood on a chair, spoon in hand, her mouth in an O. Water dripped down the oilskin tablecloth to the floor, where more water pooled around a pile of broken glass.
“Don’t move, honey.” In a whirl of orange, Lily dipped under the dry sink, surfacing with a brush and pan. “I don’t want you to get cut.”
Georgie froze on the chair. “I’m s–sorry.”
“I know, little one.” Lily brushed the glass, creating jingling sounds against the metal pan. “I loved hearing you sing.”
Jackson grinned. “Me, too—”
“Georgia!” Aunt Martha tottered into the kitchen, her generally neat hair in disarray and her eyes rheumy with sleep. “For shame.”
Georgie blanched. Then her cheeks mottled. Jackson knew well what came next: a sharp intake of breath and then a mighty wail that could probably be heard in Corpus Christi. When the howl escaped, Aunt Martha’s mouth pinched. “Fits of temper are unacceptable. Bed with no supper—”
“Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Phipps.” Lily scooped his wailing daughter and set her down at the threshold, beside Jackson. “Do not touch her until you’ve washed up,” she warned him.
“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled then retrieved the metal basin, soap, and towel they kept on the porch. “Come on, Georgie.”
The wail calmed to a sniffle. She nodded.
“Mrs. Phipps.” Lily’s voice carried through the open windows. “Would you taste the soup for me? I might not have added enough salt, and you have impeccable taste.”
“It is a miserable waste,” Aunt Martha agreed, clearly mishearing Lily. “This mess—”
“Is almost tidied. Would you salt the soup for me?” The way she glided over Martha’s misapprehension must have settled matters, for the voices quieted.
Jackson hadn’t wanted to admit it, but as he scrubbed at the pump, he couldn’t deny it anymore. Aunt Martha and Georgie both needed looking after. He’d brought his aunt here to help him, but maybe God had brought her to Texas so Jackson could help her.
She’d never had children of her own. Mr. Phipps succumbed to a fever not three years after they wed. She deserved to be with family now. Jackson and Georgie.
Lily appeared on the porch. “Supper will be served at its usual time.”
And it was. When the supper bell rang, the kitchen was clean and the table set with fresh linen. “Lily started the soup, but I seasoned it,” Aunt Martha boasted.
“Each night’s victuals taste better than the last,” Fred said with a wink to Delia. But it was Lily who still had traces of flour streaking her hair.
He was mopping the last bit of beef broth from his bowl with soda bread when it hit him. Lily could stay. Here in Texas. At Bridge Ranch.
He needed the help with Georgie, but that wasn’t all. He liked looking across the table at Lily. She occupied his thoughts as no other female had since Paloma passed. Lily wasn’t the saloon girl he’d taken her to be, and while she’d seemed to struggle with her faith, he sensed openness in her. He watched her, wiping Georgie’s dribbling spoon with one hand while conversing with her sister and Fred.
“Delia plays piano.” Her eyes sparked with pride.
“But Lily sings better.” Delia nudged her sister’s shoulder. “She’s the finest soprano in Boston.”
Jackson dropped the bread, untasted, in the bowl. How could he forget? Lily wanted out of here with the stagecoach.
No matter what he felt stirring in his chest, Lily Kimball was not the woman for him.