Read Online Her Colorado Man by Cheryl St.john - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cheryl St.john
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choice.”
She cut away and headed for one of the other buildings.
Wes took a deep breath and walked toward the mash house.
The next few days followed pretty much the same pattern. He told John James goodbye at the front of the house and then hopped on the back of a wagon headingfor the brewery. For ten hours—with a break for lunch—Philo tested Wes’s mettle, and Wes determinedly worked to prove himself.
Of an evening, he sat beside John James and across from Mariah at the supper table, learning what it was like to be part of the chattering, laughing family that pulsed around him.
Mariah’s mother often sought him out in the uncanny way she had about her. She would tilt her head and moments later, walk right up beside him.
One evening as they joined others by the fire, Henrietta laid her hand on his shoulder, and then took his hand. “Your husband is in pain,” she told Mariah a few minutes later.
“I’m all right, Mrs. Fuermann.”
“I can call the doctor for you,” the woman told him.
He shrugged. “There’s nothing he can do except give me something for the pain. My leg is healing on its own.”
“Put ice on it,” she told Mariah. “And then you heat a bag of rice. That will feel good and help him sleep. Have you been sleeping well?”
“Just fine, ma’am.”
“I don’t think so. I think you’re tired.” And to Mariah she said, “Take your husband upstairs now.”
Mariah stood. “Head upstairs, John James.”
Her son carefully piled his wooden horses in their canvas bag. “Come on, boy,” he said unnecessarily to the dog he’d named Felix. The critter followed him everywhere.
She glanced at Wes. “You two go ahead. I’ll be right up.”
“Did you see my horse that looks like an army horse?” John James asked as they climbed the stairs.
Wes took each step with caution so as not to bend his ankle at a painful angle. “You’ll have to show it to me up close,” he replied.
With Felix at his heels, John James ran ahead into his mother’s room. Wes followed more slowly. The child knelt on the rug and took his horses from the bag—right where Wes normally made his pallet for the night. Wes eased onto the plushly upholstered chair and listened as John James told him about each horse.
Minutes later, Mariah joined them, softly closing the door behind her. She glanced from her son to Wes and then at the bed. She set her mouth in a line of displeasure, but she set down the knotted dishtowel she held on the night table, pulled back the covers on the near side of the bed and propped several pillows. “Come lie down,” she told him.
He took off his boots, then limped to the bed and made himself comfortable on the soft mattress.
She placed another pillow near the end and instructed him to rest his foot on it.
He did so, and she retrieved the dishtowel, which it turned out was filled with ice, and held it above his leg. She paused. “Where, exactly?”
Wes hiked up his pant leg and rolled down his wool stocking so she could see the scars.
“It’s swollen,” she said with surprise.
“Not bad.”
She arranged the cold pack on his leg.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She avoided his gaze. “You don’t have to call me ma’am.”
“Tell us a story, Papa,” John James begged, climbing onto the foot of the bed. “Please?”
Mariah reached into a small brocade satchel and took out some kind of stitchery, then sat on the rocking chair near the bed.
“Is that needlepoint?” Wes asked.
“Embroidery. I’m making a quilt for my cousin’s baby.”
“Hildy?” he asked. It took a lot of doing, but he was trying to remember names and relationships.
A frown lined her forehead for only a second before she said, “Hildy has no children. Faye is expecting a new one.”
“A new brother or sister for Paul and Emma,” he said, proud that he’d made the correct family connection.
The ice did feel good on his leg, and he was able to relax a little. He considered a story
She cut away and headed for one of the other buildings.
Wes took a deep breath and walked toward the mash house.
The next few days followed pretty much the same pattern. He told John James goodbye at the front of the house and then hopped on the back of a wagon headingfor the brewery. For ten hours—with a break for lunch—Philo tested Wes’s mettle, and Wes determinedly worked to prove himself.
Of an evening, he sat beside John James and across from Mariah at the supper table, learning what it was like to be part of the chattering, laughing family that pulsed around him.
Mariah’s mother often sought him out in the uncanny way she had about her. She would tilt her head and moments later, walk right up beside him.
One evening as they joined others by the fire, Henrietta laid her hand on his shoulder, and then took his hand. “Your husband is in pain,” she told Mariah a few minutes later.
“I’m all right, Mrs. Fuermann.”
“I can call the doctor for you,” the woman told him.
He shrugged. “There’s nothing he can do except give me something for the pain. My leg is healing on its own.”
“Put ice on it,” she told Mariah. “And then you heat a bag of rice. That will feel good and help him sleep. Have you been sleeping well?”
“Just fine, ma’am.”
“I don’t think so. I think you’re tired.” And to Mariah she said, “Take your husband upstairs now.”
Mariah stood. “Head upstairs, John James.”
Her son carefully piled his wooden horses in their canvas bag. “Come on, boy,” he said unnecessarily to the dog he’d named Felix. The critter followed him everywhere.
She glanced at Wes. “You two go ahead. I’ll be right up.”
“Did you see my horse that looks like an army horse?” John James asked as they climbed the stairs.
Wes took each step with caution so as not to bend his ankle at a painful angle. “You’ll have to show it to me up close,” he replied.
With Felix at his heels, John James ran ahead into his mother’s room. Wes followed more slowly. The child knelt on the rug and took his horses from the bag—right where Wes normally made his pallet for the night. Wes eased onto the plushly upholstered chair and listened as John James told him about each horse.
Minutes later, Mariah joined them, softly closing the door behind her. She glanced from her son to Wes and then at the bed. She set her mouth in a line of displeasure, but she set down the knotted dishtowel she held on the night table, pulled back the covers on the near side of the bed and propped several pillows. “Come lie down,” she told him.
He took off his boots, then limped to the bed and made himself comfortable on the soft mattress.
She placed another pillow near the end and instructed him to rest his foot on it.
He did so, and she retrieved the dishtowel, which it turned out was filled with ice, and held it above his leg. She paused. “Where, exactly?”
Wes hiked up his pant leg and rolled down his wool stocking so she could see the scars.
“It’s swollen,” she said with surprise.
“Not bad.”
She arranged the cold pack on his leg.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She avoided his gaze. “You don’t have to call me ma’am.”
“Tell us a story, Papa,” John James begged, climbing onto the foot of the bed. “Please?”
Mariah reached into a small brocade satchel and took out some kind of stitchery, then sat on the rocking chair near the bed.
“Is that needlepoint?” Wes asked.
“Embroidery. I’m making a quilt for my cousin’s baby.”
“Hildy?” he asked. It took a lot of doing, but he was trying to remember names and relationships.
A frown lined her forehead for only a second before she said, “Hildy has no children. Faye is expecting a new one.”
“A new brother or sister for Paul and Emma,” he said, proud that he’d made the correct family connection.
The ice did feel good on his leg, and he was able to relax a little. He considered a story
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