Part 8 (2/2)
Which was why Clint looked forward to a stay in San Francisco like a parched man did drink. Lord, but Rachel'd be a pretty sight with her hair spread out on one of those lacy hotel pillows.
”Aunt Hester's promised to make me cookies after the dishes are done,” Cody piped up between bites. His announcement jerked Clint from his mental meanderings back to the present. ”Didn't you, Aunt Hester?”
”I recollect I did,” Hester acknowledged with a nod of her graying head.
”I'll help,” Rachel volunteered, rising quickly to take up her still half-filled plate.
”No!” chorused Cody and Daniel before exchanging sheepish looks.
”Uh, that is, you're lookin' kind of tired tonight,” Daniel amended quickly. ”Ain't that right, Clint?”
Still clutching her plate, Rachel squinted the length of the table at the blur she knew to be her husband.
”Actually, I was just thinkin' she looked particularly tidy tonight,” Clint drawled.
Tidy? Rachel glanced down at the plain black skirt more suited for a matron of advanced years than a bride. She'd worn it because the wide sash reduced her waist to a mere wisp, something she'd heard men found irresistible. Instead, Clint thought she looked tidy. Lord, he might as well stand up in church and declare her a miserable failure as a wife and lover.
The lump in her throat took on sharp edges. Just when she had finally begun to feel at home, the family she'd grown to love was letting her know how little they valued her. ”I suppose I should really attend to the mending-”
”Bless your heart for offering, but there's no need,” Aunt Hester interrupted in her hearty mid-western tw.a.n.g. ”Since I had a few spare minutes, I managed to finish the last of it before supper.”
Rachel blinked, seeing the overloaded mending basket in her mind's eye. It had always seemed like an unscalable mountain. ”All of it? The socks, too?”
Though she couldn't see Aunt Hester's face, she could hear her answering chuckle. ”Why, child, it wasn't such a ch.o.r.e, not when a body knows what she's doing.”
Which I don't, Rachel thought, turning away from the table.
Just a few minutes before noon the following day, Clint came in from the fields in hopes of stealing Rachel away on a nice long ride for a picnic. For dessert, he planned to make wild and noisy love to her. As he entered the kitchen, he slapped the dust from his hat and tossed it onto the table. Aunt Hester was outside boiling linen, and the house seemed strangely quiet. Too quiet, come to think of it.
”Rachel? Where are you, girl?” Hearing no answer, he strode impatiently toward the master bedroom, his boot heels thudding noisily on the freshly waxed planks. ”Rachel?”
The door stood open. Inside, where the knotty pine bedstead gleamed under a fresh coat of polish, the rag rugs were almost bright as new and the windows actually sparkled. Aunt Hester had worked her magic once more, and Clint allowed himself a rare moment of self-congratulation. Despite temporary inconveniences because of inadequate sleeping arrangements, writing to Aunt Hester had been a stroke of genius, sure enough. Finally, he had the smoothly running home he'd craved. Once he got a master bedroom built onto the existing house, everything would be perfect.
As Clint moved into the immaculate bedroom, he thought it seemed too empty. Even the dresser that had held Rachel's female doodads looked a little too naked for his peace of mind. Alarm snaked through him, settling its coils around his gut and squeezing hard. Heart tripping, he strode to the armoire and tore open the door. Rachel's side was empty. There wasn't a fussy s.h.i.+rtwaist or leg-of-mutton sleeve or long skirt in sight. Even the jumble of small shoes in the bottom had disappeared.
”s.h.i.+t!”
Leaving the armoire door open, he turned to the chiffonier and jerked open the drawers one by one. All empty, save for the last which held his long johns and socks. d.a.m.n the woman's hide; she had a wagon load of explaining to do.
Seconds later Clint strode furiously across the yard toward his aunt. ”Have you seen my wife?” he demanded, planting his feet wide and jamming hard fists on his hips.
Aunt Hester finished pinning one of Cody's s.h.i.+rts to the line before turning her gaze in his direction. ”Last I seen, she was riding out of here on a bay mare with all her belongings strapped on the rump,” she declared, her mouth tugged down by the weight of her glum mood. ”Riding astride, I might add, with her petticoats hiked clear to her knees and her bloomers displayed for the whole county to see.”
Clint snapped a fast look at the rutted trail heading toward town. Whatever dust Rachel had raised had long since settled, and the only thing moving between him and the distant horizon were swaying pine trees.
”Why?” he muttered, forgetting for a moment he wasn't alone.
”Don't know the why of it myself. I asked, mind. But all she gave me was a d.a.m.ned fool answer.”
”Which was?”
”That she kept up her end of the bargain, but now that I'm here, she don't have to anymore.” Hester fastened worried eyes on him. ”Nephew, never mistake it. I'd rather leave than cause trouble between you and your missus. I guess, in my eagerness to make myself needed, I might 've started off a little strong. Maybe she felt like I was pus.h.i.+ng her out.”
”That's ridiculous,” Clint bit out. And he truly believed it was. ”You've been nothin' but sweet and kind since you've been here, Aunt Hester. If Rachel felt shoved out, it was because she wanted to feel that way.”
His aunt didn't look rea.s.sured. ”Sometimes we women see things a little different than you men.” She sighed, snapping the wrinkles from a s.h.i.+rt. ”She said to tell you to pick up the mare at the livery, by the way, rather than at her house.”
That news only added more fuel to Clint's mounting rage. So, she didn't wish to see him, did she? Not even for the few short minutes it would take for him to pick up the horse? Well, fine. That was just fine.
He raked a hand through his hair, his temper aboil and his gut tight. d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l, no woman was worth this kind of aggravation, especially when he'd been as patient as a man could be.
”I expect you're aiming to go after her,” Aunt Hester said.
d.a.m.n straight he was going after her, Clint thought, clenching his teeth so hard something popped alongside his jaw. She was his wife, wasn't she? She belonged here with him. In his bed- s.h.i.+t! Maybe his lovemakin' wasn't as great as he liked to think. Could be he hadn't been patient enough with her that first time. Or skilled enough, for that matter. Given his limited experience with women, he'd tried his best to do right by her. But maybe his best hadn't been good enough. Especially not after those first nights, what with Aunt Hester listening in, and all.
Clint stared off into the distance, his throat stinging so sharply with unshed tears, he felt about as old as Cody. Was that the reason Rachel'd high tailed it back to her da at the first opportunity? Because he had disappointed her? Shame scalded his insides, burning deeper and deeper until he d.a.m.n near doubled over. If a man couldn't satisfy his woman in bed, he didn't deserve to keep her.
”No,I'm not aimin' to go after her,” he said in belated answer to his aunt's question.
”But, Nephew, that's just plain-”
”No buts, Aunt Hester. I'm not goin' after her. I have better things to do.”
Squaring his shoulders, he turned away and headed for the barn. He was a Rafferty, d.a.m.n it. Rafferty men had pride. Rafferty men didn't beg any woman to stay if she really wanted to leave. But, d.a.m.n, it hurt.
Clint shoved open the bat-wing doors and headed into the Golden Goose. The monthly cattlemen's meeting had lasted longer than usual, and remembering now he'd met Rachel after the last meeting a little over two months ago, he'd been so tense all evening, his throat was raw with thirst. Squinting in the smoke and lamp oil haze, he cast a look-see toward the bar, half expecting to spot Matt or one of his other brothers bending an elbow. This time he saw only Dora Faye. Judging by her scowl, she wasn't planning to lay out any welcome.
”You got your nerve comin' here tonight, Clint Rafferty,” she said when he drew up next to her.
”How so?” he asked before signaling the barkeep to bring him a bottle. ”Rye,” he amplified. ”The kind you keep on hand for bankers and politicians.” He flicked Dora Faye a glance. ”And two gla.s.ses.”
”One,” she corrected in a trice. ”I'm particular about who I drink with.”
Clint shoved back his hat. ”Meaning you ain't interested in drinkin' with me?”
She turned her back to the bar and rested her elbows on the polished surface. Another time Clint might have enjoyed the snowy expanse of female bosom above the gaudy lace of her cheap green dress. Tonight, however, he had one thing on his mind, and one thing only-pouring enough whiskey down his throat to take away the empty feeling in his belly. Now he knew how his da must have felt after losing his ma. Hollow clear to his marrow. Not really caring if he lived or died. Rachel had been gone a month now, and every second had been an agony for him.
”Suit yourself,” he said to Dora Faye as he tipped the bottle over the gla.s.s. A second later, he slugged down the liquor. Five drinks later, some of the knots in his mood had come untangled, but not all.
”For someone claimin' she's not eager for my company, you sure are hangin' fast to my s.h.i.+rt-tails,” he told the soiled dove sourly.
”Only so's I can tell you what an a.s.s I think you are. You broke Rachel's heart, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
Clint bit down hard. ”The h.e.l.l I did,” he retorted. This time when he poured, his hand wasn't as steady as it should have been. And when he downed the triple shot, the whiskey had suddenly acquired a foul bite. Or was it loneliness he was tasting?
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