Read Online Mail Order Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1) by Julianne MacLean - Free Book Online
Authors: Julianne MacLean
Ads: Link
into her line of vision, as if he had been watching her reactions, waiting expectantly for the first teardrop to fall. “The constant wind may rattle the window and door,” he said, “but not the walls. They’re about thirty-six inches thick.”
“Thirty-six inches,” Sarah repeated. “My, my.” She looked up at the roof, wondering if she should worry about it caving in. “What’s that made of?”
“A lattice of willow poles. Then there’s brush, long grass, a layer of clay from the creek bank, and a final dressing of sod. Strong enough for you to stand on.”
“How reassuring,” she said, fearing her composure was reaching its last limit.
But she would not let him know.
She turned and looked at the bed. “Is that, uh…?”
“The bed. It’s too small, I know. I was planning to build another one before you got here, but things got behind in the haying and I just didn’t get the chance.”
Sarah swallowed the throbbing lump in her throat, wondering with concern when he intended to find the time, and what they were going to do in the meantime.
“Don’t worry. The bedbugs are minimal.”
“Bedbugs?” she echoed, feeling her skin prickle all over.
Briggs walked toward the door. “Now that you’re settled in, I gotta get to work. You’ll find all the food I got in that box over there and in the garden. You can expect me back around dusk.” He walked up the dirt steps without looking back, then disappeared into the daylight.
Sarah stood wearily, wondering if he realized his house was a dark, depressing dungeon. She felt a sudden tickling at her neck and slapped at it, inspecting her palm for some frightening little creature with lots of legs. Finding nothing, she assured herself that she had imagined the sensation. It was probably just a loose sprig of hair.
Sarah looked around with uncertainty. Briggs had given her no direction as to her duties, but had said there was plenty to do. The obvious chore at the moment was to unpack her bag, then prepare dinner before he returned from the field. That couldn’t be too difficult, could it?
She carried her bag to the bed, but when she found nothing that resembled a chest of drawers, she had little choice but to leave everything packed for the time being.
Next, she went to the cupboard—an open wooden box by the stove—and knelt down to see what it contained. She found a sack of cornmeal, a small jar of sorghum molasses, some fat in another jar, coffee, flour, and some salt pork. A bag of potatoes sat next to the box, and beside that was a whole barrel of salt, half-full.
How had Briggs survived before she’d arrived? No wonder he’d advertised for a wife.
From this moment on, she decided, meals would improve around here. Tonight, he would bite into the best biscuits he’d ever tasted in his life. Sarah would find a way to make that salt pork into something mouth-watering, and her surly, stubborn husband wouldn’t be able to deny it.
All she had to do now was light a fire and start working on the biscuits. She went to the stove and pulled open the door. Ashes. She sighed. Wondering when Briggs had last cleaned them out, she looked around for a shovel. Unable to find one, she scooped the residue out with a soup ladle and filled a bucket. When the stove was empty, she proudly swiped her palms together and looked around for some kindling.
A careful inventory of the so-called kitchen left her with nothing flammable to speak of, so she went outside and searched the yard and the barn for firewood. Still nothing. What did he use to light fires? Grass, perhaps? It seemed he used it for everything else, but how could anyone keep a fire going with only grass?
All of a sudden, she didn’t feel so clever. The simple task of cooking supper was now a daunting assignment. Her insides reeled with frustration. Briggs was probably crouching out in his field, spying on her and waiting for her to fail, even if it meant coming home hungrier than a lion to a
“Thirty-six inches,” Sarah repeated. “My, my.” She looked up at the roof, wondering if she should worry about it caving in. “What’s that made of?”
“A lattice of willow poles. Then there’s brush, long grass, a layer of clay from the creek bank, and a final dressing of sod. Strong enough for you to stand on.”
“How reassuring,” she said, fearing her composure was reaching its last limit.
But she would not let him know.
She turned and looked at the bed. “Is that, uh…?”
“The bed. It’s too small, I know. I was planning to build another one before you got here, but things got behind in the haying and I just didn’t get the chance.”
Sarah swallowed the throbbing lump in her throat, wondering with concern when he intended to find the time, and what they were going to do in the meantime.
“Don’t worry. The bedbugs are minimal.”
“Bedbugs?” she echoed, feeling her skin prickle all over.
Briggs walked toward the door. “Now that you’re settled in, I gotta get to work. You’ll find all the food I got in that box over there and in the garden. You can expect me back around dusk.” He walked up the dirt steps without looking back, then disappeared into the daylight.
Sarah stood wearily, wondering if he realized his house was a dark, depressing dungeon. She felt a sudden tickling at her neck and slapped at it, inspecting her palm for some frightening little creature with lots of legs. Finding nothing, she assured herself that she had imagined the sensation. It was probably just a loose sprig of hair.
Sarah looked around with uncertainty. Briggs had given her no direction as to her duties, but had said there was plenty to do. The obvious chore at the moment was to unpack her bag, then prepare dinner before he returned from the field. That couldn’t be too difficult, could it?
She carried her bag to the bed, but when she found nothing that resembled a chest of drawers, she had little choice but to leave everything packed for the time being.
Next, she went to the cupboard—an open wooden box by the stove—and knelt down to see what it contained. She found a sack of cornmeal, a small jar of sorghum molasses, some fat in another jar, coffee, flour, and some salt pork. A bag of potatoes sat next to the box, and beside that was a whole barrel of salt, half-full.
How had Briggs survived before she’d arrived? No wonder he’d advertised for a wife.
From this moment on, she decided, meals would improve around here. Tonight, he would bite into the best biscuits he’d ever tasted in his life. Sarah would find a way to make that salt pork into something mouth-watering, and her surly, stubborn husband wouldn’t be able to deny it.
All she had to do now was light a fire and start working on the biscuits. She went to the stove and pulled open the door. Ashes. She sighed. Wondering when Briggs had last cleaned them out, she looked around for a shovel. Unable to find one, she scooped the residue out with a soup ladle and filled a bucket. When the stove was empty, she proudly swiped her palms together and looked around for some kindling.
A careful inventory of the so-called kitchen left her with nothing flammable to speak of, so she went outside and searched the yard and the barn for firewood. Still nothing. What did he use to light fires? Grass, perhaps? It seemed he used it for everything else, but how could anyone keep a fire going with only grass?
All of a sudden, she didn’t feel so clever. The simple task of cooking supper was now a daunting assignment. Her insides reeled with frustration. Briggs was probably crouching out in his field, spying on her and waiting for her to fail, even if it meant coming home hungrier than a lion to a
Similar Books
