Three Weddings and a Kiss Part 4

5.

Less than an hour later, Rachel found herself a mile outside of town, alone with a complete stranger who also happened to be her lawful husband. To complicate matters further, he'd chosen not to rent a wagon for the return trip to his ranch, which meant that she was ensconced on the saddle in front of him and forced to endure the intimacy of his touch for the duration of the ride. Her valise and satchel, joined together at the handles by a length of rope, were draped over the horse's rump behind him like an ungainly pair of saddlebags.

Convinced he must be furious-she couldn't imagine his being anything else, despite his denials inside the church-Rachel racked her brain for a way to defuse his anger before they reached his ranch and he did something they both might regret.

"Mr. Rafferty?"

At the sound of his name, he stiffened slightly, his hand on her midriff shifting position, the proximity of his fingertips to her breast a subtle reminder that she was now his wife and therefore his possession. "You can call me Clint now, Rachel. It's more or less an accepted thing, the use of first names between husbands and wives."

"Yes, of course, Clint." The lump of anxiety in Rachel's throat felt the size of a goose egg. "I, um..." She tried desperately to swallow. Tears of frustration filled her eyes, making the surrounding woods seem even more blurry. In the distance, she could see the craggy peaks of the Cascades, which, without her spectacles, looked like gigantic, indistinct lumps, their snow-swept slopes glistening brilliantly in the July morning sun. "I was just-well, I know you must be angry. Possibly even livid. I certainly can't blame you for that, and I want you to know that I'll do whatever I possibly can to resolve matters."

"Really?" He hunched his broad shoulders around her and tipped his hat back so he might watch her face. "And tell me, Rachel, just how do you plan to resolve matters?" His smoky blue eyes twinkled warmly into hers. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought things were already pretty much settled."

"Settled? We're married, Mr. Rafferty! Don't you realize what that means? I can't believe you've agreed to this."

He smiled slightly, his ebony lashes drifting low over his eyes to partially conceal his expression. "I guess maybe the situation is a little more frightening for you than it is for me."

"Frightening? Why should I feel frightened?" she asked. "I think it would be more accurate to say I feel uneasy."

The creases that bracketed his mouth became deep slashes as his firm lips drew into a smile. "All right, you probably feel more uneasy than I do, then. And I can't blame you for that. You barely know me, and now I suddenly have control over your life. That has to be unsettling."

Rachel could have gone all day without hearing him put it into words like that. Control over her life? Oh, G.o.d...She blinked and averted her face, uncomfortable with the silence that fell over them but uncertain how to break it. With nervous fingers, she plucked at the folds of her skirt, wishing she were anywhere but there.

"If it's any comfort at all," he finally added, "I'm not a mean-natured man. You don't need to feel afrai-" He broke off and fell silent. "Uneasy, you don't need to feel uneasy."

Looking up at him, she felt breathless. To her frightened mind, he seemed taller and broader across the shoulders than he had earlier, a muscular wall of power that might at any moment be targeted at her. Control over her life? Oh, it was far more than that, she thought dismally. Far, far more.

Clint heaved a weary sigh and shifted his weight in the saddle. For just a moment his thoughts turned toward home, where his brothers, completely unsuspecting that they had a new sister-in-law, awaited his arrival. Because of them he hadn't protested the marriage to Rachel, and for the life of him, he couldn't regret that decision now. The Raffertys, Clint included, needed a woman in the house, and left to his own devices, Clint wasn't at all sure he could have found one who compared to Rachel Constantine. She wasn't just beautiful, which was a definite plus as far as he was concerned, but she had nice manners and was well-spoken. She'd be a good influence on his brothers, a real good influence. He pictured her in a bib ap.r.o.n with a streak of flour on her cheek. His stomach growled just at the thought. Lord, he couldn't remember when he'd had a good home-cooked meal.

No, he couldn't muster up any regret about marrying Rachel Constantine. The words "manna from heaven" kept popping into his mind. To him, that was what she was, a miracle that had accidentally dropped in his lap. Besides, it wasn't as if this was his fault. He hadn't set out to entrap her or anything. Far from it. And he wasn't the only one benefitting. His own selfish reasons aside, Rachel would have been crucified by the so-called righteous citizens of Shady Corners if he hadn't made an honest woman of her. This marriage was the best thing for her.

Glancing down at her, Clint saw that the bewildered, worried expression was still in her beautiful blue eyes. If they knew each other better, he might be able to guess what she was thinking. How did a young woman feel when she'd just married a man against her will? And a stranger, at that? Clint didn't suppose she felt like whooping for joy.

For just a moment, he toyed with the idea of waiting until he exercised his conjugal rights. Just as swiftly, he discarded the idea. From the instant he'd said "I do," he'd been determined to make the best of this marriage. With that aim in mind, he had no intention of sharing a bed with Rachel and refraining from touching her. Just the thought set his nerves on edge.

He already had enough on his plate without having no deal with s.e.xual frustration. The way he saw it, intimacy between him and Rachel would only make it easier for them to forge a friendship. Some people might say he was going at things a.s.s-backward, but so what. He was new to this marriage business and was making up the rules as he went along.

Though his recollections of last night were a little muddled, some parts were picture clear. He recalled how she had felt in his embrace, how unbelievably sweet she had been, as if G.o.d had made her especially for him. Her kiss, as he remembered, had been awkward and shy, definitely not that of an experienced woman, but even so, he knew there was pa.s.sion within her to kindle. That had been apparent in the way she'd opened her mouth to him and molded her body to his. His main problem would be to get her back into his arms again. Once he had her there, he didn't doubt his ability to arouse her. At the thought, a searing heat formed low in his belly.

Becoming more mindful by the moment that it was still morning and, therefore, a long while till nightfall, Clint forced his thoughts away from love-making. "About your sister Molly," he said softly. "If Matt truly did humiliate her in front of her friends and make her cry, I'm really sorry."

"He didn't just make her cry," she corrected. "He broke her heart." Her large blue eyes flashed to his. "Just because she's only fourteen, that doesn't mean she's too young to fall in love, you know."

"Of course not," he agreed. "If anything, she's probably capable of loving even more intensely because of her age. It's my experience that we tend to guard our feelings a little more closely as we get older."

She looked mildly surprised to hear him say that. "You aren't going to say it's all nonsense then? About Matt breaking her heart, I mean?"

Gazing down at her, Clint had an almost irresistible urge to kiss the little frown wrinkles from her brow. Why, he couldn't say. True, he'd cast an admiring eye in Rachel Constantine's direction more than once since moving to this area. But being a young and healthy bachelor, he'd cast an admiring eye in lots of girls' directions. Maybe that was his trouble. He and his friend Henry hadn't had the pleasure of a lady's company in a good long while, and pent-up need was playing heck with his self-control. "No," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "I don't think it's nonsense. That isn't to say I believe Matt meant to hurt her, or that he even knows he did."

"How could he not know?"

Clint sighed. "Rachel, my brother has probably broken a dozen hearts, and I doubt he ever realized it. He's a very handsome fellow with a charming way about him. More than one-"

For the first time that day, she smiled. Only slightly and very fleetingly, but it was a smile just the same. The brilliance of it cut him short and left him with absolutely no recollection of what he'd been about to say. "Handsome and charming, is he? Do you realize how much you two look alike?"

For a second, Clint couldn't think how to reply. Then he decided to fall back on plain old honesty, which had never failed him yet. "Matt and I are like two identical chunks of agate, one polished and the other not. I have all the same surface, darlin', but I'm missin' the shine."

Her large blue eyes moved slowly over his face. After looking her fill, she smiled again, still only slightly, but with devastating impact. Looking down at her, Clint decided he could probably become a millionaire if he could figure out a way to bottle that sweetness of hers. "I've never seen your brother, so I can't say for sure, but I find it difficult to believe he outshines you by much."

Uncertain how to accept the compliment graciously, Clint decided to ignore it. "What've you been doin', girl? Walkin' around town with your eyes shut?"

"Pardon?"

"How else could miss seein' my brother?"

Her cheeks turned an embarra.s.sed pink. "I misspoke. Of course I've seen him, just never from up close."

Clint found it rather incredible that Matt, who was attracted to pretty women like bees to honey, had never homed in on Rachel. She was one pretty little gal, make no mistake. "Well, trust me, honey, he doesn't just outshine me. If women's reactions to him are any indication, we're talkin' a total eclipse. Just you make sure you don't fall for any of his blarney. Mistake or no, you're married to me, not to him."

He clicked his tongue to the horse and nudged it to a faster pace. At just that moment, a jackrabbit bounded out from a clump of brush onto the road. The unexpected flash of movement spooked Clint's roan, and before he could react, the stallion reared to strike the air with its front hooves. Rachel had no stirrups with which to balance her weight, and the only thing anchoring her to the saddle was Clint's hold on her. Fearful that she might get hurt, he tightened his arm around her waist as he struggled to regain control of the horse.

When the huge animal had finally quieted, Clint realized that in the confusion, he had moved his palm upward on Rachel's ribs to partially cup her breast. She clearly didn't appreciate the familiarity. Either that, or the stupid horse had scared her half to death. As near as he could tell, she had all but stopped breathing.

"Rachel?"

Very carefully, he slid his hand back down to its former resting place, then leaned slightly forward so he might see her face. His heart caught at her expression, her eyes squeezed tightly closed, her sweet mouth acquiver as she waged an obvious battle not to cry out.

"Rachel..." he said more softly. "It's all right."

"Did we smash it?"

The question took him totally off guard, and he slowly circled it, not entirely sure what she was talking about. "Did we smash what?"

"The poor bunny," she asked thinly.

The poor bunny? Clint stared down at her pale face, still not convinced he was reading this correctly. True, the girl had been born and raised in town, but surely that hadn't entirely insulated her from the realities of life, rabbit stew ranking high on the list. "No, we didn't smash the rabbit," he replied in a voice that had gone oddly tight. "He made it across without even getting his fur ruffled."

Her breath rushed from her chest and her eyes fluttered open. Splaying a small hand over her throat, she swallowed audibly and gave a weak smile. "Oh, thank goodness. They're such sweet little things, don't you think? I particularly love the way they wiggle their noses."

After studying her for a moment, Clint gave himself a hard mental shake. There was no point in thinking the worst. Just because the girl was worried about one wild bunny, that didn't mean she would be squeamish about cooking up the occasional rabbit stew.

Surely not.

6.

The Rafferty ranch was nestled among a stand of tall pines in a gra.s.sy valley completely surrounded by forested mountains. As soon as she got close enough to see it clearly, Rachel found it breathtaking.

As Clint steered his stallion down to the house, she couldn't shake the feeling of rightness that came over her. It was as if she'd been waiting all her life for this moment, and possibly for this man. Crazy, so crazy. She was making absolutely no sense. This marriage was a mockery and doomed to be dissolved. To entertain the notion that it might be otherwise was absolute madness.

As Clint drew the horse up at the edge of the porch, she saw a blur of white next to an odd-looking stump. Peering more intently, she realized she was seeing a chopping block, with chicken feathers strewn at the base. Instantly queasy, she jerked her gaze to the house itself. Anything to keep from imagining the blood and gore that must have accompanied the recent slaughter.

The house was simplicity itself, a sprawling structure of rough-hewn logs and a cedar shake roof. It wasn't pretty by any stretch of the imagination, though it could have been charming if any attempt at all had been made to pretty it up.

To say that hadn't happened struck her as a gross understatement. In fact, by the looks of things, just the opposite had occurred. Even without her gla.s.ses, she could make out a rusted old washtub on one side of the front porch with a weathered scrub board standing on end inside it and a pair of dirt-encrusted gray socks draped over its rim. Next to the tub lay a discarded flour sack, out of which had spilled some flour gone wet and gooey in the rain, then turned rock hard in the sun. Behind the flour sack, a partially used sack of spuds had been propped against the house within easy reach of the front door. All in all, the place looked as if a band of none-too-tidy squatters had taken up residence.

"Things could use some cleanin' up," Clint said apologetically.

"Oh, it's lovely. Really. I like log houses. Don't you?" In actuality, Rachel preferred clapboard, but she would never risk hurting his feelings by saying so.

Glancing back at him over her shoulder, her gaze caught on his firm mouth. She couldn't help but recall how it had felt to be in his arms last night, how dizzily she had succ.u.mbed to his kisses. Thinking back on it, she wondered how it might feel to be kissed by him again. In the light of day, would she find his embrace boring and unexciting, as she had Lawson's? Or as had happened last night, would the first touch of his lips on hers steal her breath away? It would probably be just as well if she never found out, she decided. Her sister Molly wasn't the only young girl who'd ever gotten her heart broken. Rachel had as well, and if she'd learned anything from the experience, it was that handsome men didn't find women like her attractive.

As he shifted forward to drape the horse's reins over the saddle and get a grip on the saddle horn, she felt the powerful play of muscles in his chest and arms. A shiver of awareness went down her spine as he swung from the saddle and reached up to lift her down.

"I can manage by myself," she said.

The protest came too late. Before she could so much as blink, he seized hold of her waist. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she kept her gaze locked with his as he lifted her easily from the saddle.

"I don't want you managing by yourself," he said huskily. "Not with eight of us here to help you. Just you remember that."

She was glad to note that his solemn, almost stern expression was belied by a slight smile flirting at the corners of his mouth. She wondered if he was smiling because he'd somehow sensed she'd been wondering how it might feel if he kissed her again. At the thought, a flush began creeping up her neck.

He was standing with his back to the sun, and his Stetson cast a shadow over his burnished features. Even with the lack of light, however, his smoky eyes had a l.u.s.trous glow. As he drew his gaze over her, she felt powerless to move and wasn't certain she wanted to. As she'd noted last night, there was something about Clint that captivated her. What or why was a true puzzle, but the moment he looked at her with those warm, gray-blue eyes of his, she felt sort of, well, boneless. But that was just plain silly.

Grasping her elbow in a large, capable hand, he helped her step up onto the porch. "We would've cleaned up if we'd've known company was comin'." As though to emphasize the point, he gave the flour sack a kick. "With the ranch demandin' so much of our time, things here at the house get sort of neglected." He led her to the door, then leaned around her to boot it open. "Not that I'm sayin' you should think of yourself as company, Rachel. Consider this to be your home."

With that, he swung the door open on a kitchen so cluttered and disorganized it defied description. An unusually long plank table, the surface of which was buried under piles of mercifully blurred clutter, dominated the center of the room. If it hadn't been for the occasional dirty dish mixed in, Rachel wouldn't have believed anyone actually used the table for eating. "Oh, my..."

Clint's hand tightened on her arm. "The boys and I will help you get things cleaned up," he a.s.sured her. "And on down the road, maybe I can put up some planed wooden walls. I know ladies are fond of hangin' wallpaper and pictures and such."

Rachel squinted to see. The interior of the house seemed unusually dim, probably because the log walls had darkened with age. The kitchen, one half of which was part.i.tioned off from the back of the house by a wall, opened into a parlor area at the unpart.i.tioned end, creating an L-shaped living area over which a large loft loomed.

If Clint's brothers were going to help her clean up, Rachel hoped they came bearing broad-blade shovels. On second thought, even shovels might not do it. In every corner, as far back into the house as she could see, there were piles of junk. Old newspapers, empty food tins, dirty laundry, school books, slates...It looked as if someone had tossed all the contents of the house onto the floor, given them a stir, and then kicked the mixture out of the way to create traffic paths. Never, not in all her born days, had she seen such a horrendous mess.

From out of the rubble, an ebony-haired little boy suddenly appeared. Rubbing one eye with his fist, he surveyed Rachel from his other.

"Who're you?"

As he drew close enough for her to see him clearly, Rachel thought she'd never clapped eyes on a cuter little fellow. She guessed him to be about six, and he looked exactly how she imagined Clint must have at that age, compact and wiry, with burnished skin and an unruly shock of pitch-black hair.

"Well, h.e.l.lo," she said, crouching to greet him at his eye level. "My name's Rachel. What's yours?"

"Cody." When he drew his fist from his eye, he had to blink to get his sooty eyelashes untangled. She noticed that a streak of dirt angled across one of his cheeks. He regarded her for several moments, his expression more serious than a child's his age should have been. With a p.r.o.nounced lisp that distorted all his S's, he added, "I'm almost seven."

"Not for nine more months," Clint corrected. "And what are you doin', sleepin' in the parlor, tyke? Not to mention it's nigh onto noon."

"n.o.body woke me to go upstairs last night." Cody dragged a suspender strap up over his shoulder. "And don't call me 'tyke,' Clint. I'm too old for little kid names."

Rachel couldn't suppress a smile. "I thought you were at least eight," she fibbed. "You must be very tall for your age."

Cody rewarded her with a pleased grin that revealed large gaps where he was missing front teeth. "Clint says I'm only knee high."

"Yes, well, considering how high his knees are, that's rather tall for someone your age," Rachel observed diplomatically. "I think lofty stature runs in your family." She glanced up at Clint. "You didn't mention having a brother so-" She nearly said "little" but stopped herself.

"Grown up?" he inserted quickly.

Rachel smiled and pushed to her feet. "Exactly."

He flashed her a meaningful look. "Like I said, I have my reasons for wantin's a wife."

Now that Rachel had met Cody, she could understand Clint's willingness to do nearly anything to ensure the little boy's happiness, even playing groom to her bride in a shotgun wedding. The problem was, his feelings were bound to change, if not when he learned she was half blind, then when he saw her in spectacles. Given the severity of her eye problem, her gla.s.ses had unusually thick lenses that would have detracted from her looks even if she'd been the most beautiful woman in the world. Rachel had learned the hard way that handsome men wanted to be with equally handsome women, which she definitely was not when she had spectacles perched on the end of her nose.

Before Rachel could stand back up, an older boy came tearing down the loft ladder into the kitchen. In the process of b.u.t.toning his blue jeans, he froze when he spotted Rachel. "Well, dammit, Clint!" The youth hurried to get his pants fastened. "You could've hollered out that we had us some company."

"Meet Daniel," Clin said by way of introduction, glancing first at Rachel, then inclining his head at the boy. "Fourteen, goin' on eighty. Excuse his language, but I ran low on soap."

Since soap was clearly a commodity in short supply, Rachel had no difficulty believing that. Daniel's undershirt, which had once been gray, was now more of a brown. Still hunkered in front of Cody, she bestowed a friendly smile on him. "h.e.l.lo, Daniel. I'm pleased to meet you."

He inclined his head. "Same here."

Good manners, it seemed, were another area Clint had neglected. She stood and surveyed the kitchen, feeling overwhelmed. Clint had gone along with marrying her because he needed a woman around the house; he'd made no secret of that. He was, in short, offering her a life here in exchange for her skills as a housekeeper and cook. It was just that simple.

Most women, Rachel knew, would be insulted. They wanted a man to be attracted to them for their looks, to love them for their personalities, to marry them for reasons of the heart. But Rachel had learned long ago not to expect any of those things. She wasn't insulted by Clint's offer. To the contrary, she was t.i.tillated, not to mention sorely tempted to take him up on it.

There was just one problem. A rather big problem. Since the death of Rachel's mother when Rachel was four, Mrs. Radcliff, the housekeeper her father had hired, had seen to the running of the Constantine household. A woman who resented any interference whatsoever, she had not encouraged Rachel or Molly to a.s.sist her with any of the ch.o.r.es. Consequently, Rachel's knowledge of homemaking was limited. By closely following a recipe, she could cook simple dishes, and she figured common sense would see her through most of the housecleaning ch.o.r.es. But laundry? She'd rinsed out her ribbed cotton hose a few times, but other than that she'd never washed, starched, or ironed a single garment. As tempting as she found Clint's proposition, she wasn't at all sure she was equal to the challenge.

On the other hand, this was her chance-probably her one and only chance-to have the thing other girls took for granted, namely a handsome young husband who made her pulse race and her skin tingle. For so long now, Rachel had been resigned to settling for second or third best. Marrying Lawson. Playing, the role of a minister's wife. Pretending she didn't want or need any excitement in her life. Now, through a quirk of fate, she had a chance for more. So much more. Every time she remembered the kiss she and Clint had shared, she fairly shivered with antic.i.p.ation.

Madness! She should know better than to get her hopes up like this. Hadn't she learned anything the last time she'd gotten her heart broken? Was she really so foolish that she was willing to risk that kind of pain again? It wasn't as if she could keep her poor eyesight a secret from Clint and all his brothers permanently or even for any length of time at all. Sooner or later, one of them would catch her wearing her spectacles, and Clint would discover the truth-that she was half blind and, to rectify the problem, had to wear horribly ugly gla.s.ses. Once that happened, there'd be no more spine-tingling kisses. He would probably make up any excuse he could think of to get rid of her.

Unless...maybe...oh, G.o.d, it was crazy to even consider it. But she'd heard tell of other marriages that had started shaky and ended up just fine. Why, even her own father had admitted once that her mother hadn't been all that crazy about marrying him at first.

Of course, Mama hadn't been blind as a bat, either. Still-what if she could keep her eyegla.s.ses a secret? The only time she absolutely had to wear them was to read, and she could try to avoid doing that in front of anyone. If she was careful, really careful, it might be months before Clint learned the truth, and maybe by then he would like her so much for herself he'd on longer care if she wore spectacles.

As crazy a plan as it was, one glance at Clint cemented it in Rachel's heart. He was, without question, one of the handsomest men she'd ever met. To a girl like her, who'd long since given up on dreaming, his offer was irresistible. She had to take a chance. If she got her heart broken again, so be it. At least she wouldn't go to her grave wanting to kick herself for never trying at all.

Her decision made, Rachel quickly a.s.sessed the mess that surrounded her. Everywhere she looked, there seemed to be stacks of dirty dishes. She had an awful feeling that her ability to balance a book on her head while climbing a flight of stairs might not come in very handy around the Rafferty place.

"I, um, don't know quite where to start..." She turned to look at Clint. "Did you say you had ch.o.r.es to do?"