Read Online Joe's Wife by Cheryl St.john - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cheryl St.john
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the whole town. She'd acknowledged him, sat by him and—Lord help her—married him. He perused her now and she surveyed him back.
She wasn't ashamed to have married him.
For the first time he allowed himself to look into the honeyed depths of her eyes without wondering what she was seeing when she looked at him. She had a peaches-and-cream complexion with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that she probably hated, but that were nearly unavoidable working every day on a ranch.
He loved the saucy turn of her nose and the bowed shape of her pink lips. Her hair smelled like violets, and its scent fluttered on every breeze within six feet.
Now, only a few errant curls were visible beneath the bonnet, but he knew the exact hue, like rich honey, and could only imagine the heady texture.
Tye realized he'd worked himself into an embarrassing state simply by looking at her, and he tore his gaze away and fixed it on the rumps of the plodding horses. He wanted a cigarette bad.
The Circle T, she'd called it, he remembered as they rode in. Not "the ranch," not "our place," but "the Circle T."
"T" for Telford .
He let the horses stand long enough to change his clothing, then led them into the barn, brushed them down, gave them grain and water and turned them into the pasture.
Tye stood with one boot on the bottom rung of the fence, watching them graze with the other horses, and rolled a smoke. A robust liver-colored chestnut in a separate corral caught his eye, and he couldn't recall ever seeing a horse like it before. He pinched out the match, slid it into his pocket and inhaled tobacco into his lungs.
His own horse, a black with speckled white hindquarters, galloped over to where he stood and nudged his shoulder. Tye stroked his forehead. He'd purchased the horse after the war and ridden him home.
"Don't let the missus catch ya doin' that," Purdy said, coming up beside him and indicating his smoke.
Tye acknowledged the advice with a nod. He hadn't imagined Meg would take too kindly to the vice.
"Slack season's nearly over," Purdy said, referring to summer, with roundup and calf branding growing near.
"Plenty to do before roundup," Tye replied. "Thought I'd go up in the hills this week and get some pine poles for a fence to make a south pasture."
"Want help?"
"Be glad for it."
Purdy nodded.
"What breed is that dark chestnut stallion?"
"Don't know." Purdy shrugged. "Joe sent him and two mares home whilst he was gone."
A bell rang then, its clamor echoing across the pasture.
"Dinner on Sunday?" the old man questioned, his gray eyebrows raised.
"You don't usually have Sunday dinner?"
"The missus is generally gone until late afternoon. Gus cooks for us."
Of course. Her Sunday routine had been shot to hell by his presence. Tye squeezed off the fire from his smoke and dropped the cigarette into his pocket. "Well. Let's see what it is."
Tye was unaccustomed to so many meals and so much food. He'd already eaten her breakfast, so he prayed he could do another meal justice.
He and the hands washed at the pump outside, entered the kitchen, hung their hats … and stopped in their tracks.
The table had been spread with a pressed white linen cloth and set with vine-and-flower-bedecked china, the edges of the cups scalloped, the plates set neatly at the end where they'd eaten that morning. A clove-studded ham graced a platter, a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes beside it, and butter melted into a bowl of steaming greens. The cut-glass salt and pepper shakers with the silver lids had been filled and added to the setting.
"What are you gaping at?" she asked the gathering of men, carrying a bowl of gravy. "We're starting our own Sunday tradition."
Tye and the hands seated themselves.
"Tye, slice the ham and serve us, please."
He picked up the knife and serving fork and did as she asked, placing a thick slice of meat on each plate. The bowls were passed, and before long he had a plateful of food to work his
She wasn't ashamed to have married him.
For the first time he allowed himself to look into the honeyed depths of her eyes without wondering what she was seeing when she looked at him. She had a peaches-and-cream complexion with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that she probably hated, but that were nearly unavoidable working every day on a ranch.
He loved the saucy turn of her nose and the bowed shape of her pink lips. Her hair smelled like violets, and its scent fluttered on every breeze within six feet.
Now, only a few errant curls were visible beneath the bonnet, but he knew the exact hue, like rich honey, and could only imagine the heady texture.
Tye realized he'd worked himself into an embarrassing state simply by looking at her, and he tore his gaze away and fixed it on the rumps of the plodding horses. He wanted a cigarette bad.
The Circle T, she'd called it, he remembered as they rode in. Not "the ranch," not "our place," but "the Circle T."
"T" for Telford .
He let the horses stand long enough to change his clothing, then led them into the barn, brushed them down, gave them grain and water and turned them into the pasture.
Tye stood with one boot on the bottom rung of the fence, watching them graze with the other horses, and rolled a smoke. A robust liver-colored chestnut in a separate corral caught his eye, and he couldn't recall ever seeing a horse like it before. He pinched out the match, slid it into his pocket and inhaled tobacco into his lungs.
His own horse, a black with speckled white hindquarters, galloped over to where he stood and nudged his shoulder. Tye stroked his forehead. He'd purchased the horse after the war and ridden him home.
"Don't let the missus catch ya doin' that," Purdy said, coming up beside him and indicating his smoke.
Tye acknowledged the advice with a nod. He hadn't imagined Meg would take too kindly to the vice.
"Slack season's nearly over," Purdy said, referring to summer, with roundup and calf branding growing near.
"Plenty to do before roundup," Tye replied. "Thought I'd go up in the hills this week and get some pine poles for a fence to make a south pasture."
"Want help?"
"Be glad for it."
Purdy nodded.
"What breed is that dark chestnut stallion?"
"Don't know." Purdy shrugged. "Joe sent him and two mares home whilst he was gone."
A bell rang then, its clamor echoing across the pasture.
"Dinner on Sunday?" the old man questioned, his gray eyebrows raised.
"You don't usually have Sunday dinner?"
"The missus is generally gone until late afternoon. Gus cooks for us."
Of course. Her Sunday routine had been shot to hell by his presence. Tye squeezed off the fire from his smoke and dropped the cigarette into his pocket. "Well. Let's see what it is."
Tye was unaccustomed to so many meals and so much food. He'd already eaten her breakfast, so he prayed he could do another meal justice.
He and the hands washed at the pump outside, entered the kitchen, hung their hats … and stopped in their tracks.
The table had been spread with a pressed white linen cloth and set with vine-and-flower-bedecked china, the edges of the cups scalloped, the plates set neatly at the end where they'd eaten that morning. A clove-studded ham graced a platter, a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes beside it, and butter melted into a bowl of steaming greens. The cut-glass salt and pepper shakers with the silver lids had been filled and added to the setting.
"What are you gaping at?" she asked the gathering of men, carrying a bowl of gravy. "We're starting our own Sunday tradition."
Tye and the hands seated themselves.
"Tye, slice the ham and serve us, please."
He picked up the knife and serving fork and did as she asked, placing a thick slice of meat on each plate. The bowls were passed, and before long he had a plateful of food to work his
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