Widows, Whiskey and Willow Switches

She didn't look at him as he approached, but hissed when he laid the cloth over her reddened skin. Gooseflesh erupted on her arms and he cursed under his breath. "Come on, honey. Let's get you under a blanket and out of the sun."

She arched an eyebrow, but followed obediently and didn't say any of the nasty things he was sure were running through her head as he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. He picked her up and carried her to a rock under another tree, perching her on his lap as he finished his apple.

"Why don't you talk and tell me about what else you planned for our homestead? You had some good ideas last spring."

"It's not ours. It's yours. I'll have nothing to do with it, aside from cooking your meals and keeping house."

"What happened to all those plans?"

"Mr. Walsh, you demanded a wife, despite my wishes. That is precisely what you will get. If I am cursed to bear your children, I will raise them to be polite, thrifty, hardworking, and to follow the teachings of the Lord. Do not presume to expect anything else because I will be God damned if I give it to you."

She turned to look over the water and bit her lip, knowing he would punish her for her ill-considered words. He sighed wearily and set her on her feet before trudging back to his horse. She heard him return, but didn't look away from the creek.

"Turn around, Abby."

With a sigh of resignation, she turned to face him and flinched when he tossed her saddle bag into her arms. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sock containing her life savings, the treasury notes rolled tightly in the toe. He picked up her hand and dropped it into her palm before twisting the link holding the chain around her neck. It fell to the ground and he left it there.

"You may write to me when you arrange for the annulment. Send me an accounting if you need to pay a lawyer."

She stared at him in shock, her voice rendered mute as he walked toward his horse. "Just like that?"

He stopped walking, but didn't turn to face her. "I give up. I suppose I hoped you'd come to love me if I took care of you and gave you the home you wanted, but I'm tired of fighting. Go back to Pueblo, or Kansas City, or wherever it is that you will find peace. I won't bother you again."

Without another word, he mounted his horse and rode away.

+++++

He rode until he was sure she couldn't see him through the sparse woods before doubling back. She didn't spot him as she hurried to tug on her clothes. Instead of the flowery blue dress she'd worn the previous day, she put on a black skirt and bodice under her late husband's coat. The skirt was split to allow her to ride astride.

She tightened the straps on her saddlebag and checked the girth before swinging a leg over her gelding's broad back, her fine Winchester in a saddle holster next to her right knee and her Colt in its holster at her thigh. She looked back for a split second before chirping her horse into a slow jog back toward Pueblo. He followed, keeping a careful distance, telling himself he wanted to make sure she arrived safely.

It had been a risk to force her into marriage. He'd be lucky if she didn't call the law down on him. Judges took a dim view of such behavior. She rode all day, only stopping to water her horse, and made camp in a thicket a fair piece from the road. She didn't sleep. Her eyes glittered in the moonlight as she rested against a tree with her rifle laid across her knees.

She reached Pueblo a few hours after dawn the next day and made straight for the church. Not long after, she exited carrying a folded piece of paper and an envelope. She left her horse tied and walked straight toward his hiding spot, a dark scowl turning her expression thunderous.

Marching right up to him, she kicked him in the thigh, knocking him to his ass. "How much will I have to pay you to stay married to me just long enough to prevent my ex brother in law from suing me for breaking a contract?"

"What?"

Tapping her foot impatiently, she threw the letter at his feet. "Read it. It's from my late husband's best friend, Archibald Cox. He took care of our financial and legal affairs, and is married to my cousin, Jane."

He read the words on the page, his brow furrowing in concentration. When he reached the end, he looked up at her. "Did you sign such a document stating that you would work the Hartford Distillery until your death?"

She snorted. "Of course not! Benjamin tried to force me to sign it when Matthew got sick, but I refused straight out. He and Matthew fought about it and I brought Archie in to stand by our decision."

"Why did you refuse?"

She wrinkled her nose and scowled. "It bore a disturbing resemblance to one of those old indentured servitude agreements. Benjamin offered me room and board in my own house in lieu of a wage, assuming I would take it when Matthew passed."

He watched her pace, her hands clenching and releasing with irritation. "That foul little man drove Matthew to his grave as surely as the consumption did."

"What does this have to do with our marriage?" She grinned and tapped his nose and his breath stuck in his throat. He'd never once seen her turn her lips up into a real smile. It illuminated her whole face.

"He says I signed the contract after you proposed in Oklahoma. Since I was engaged to be married in a different state, I can hardly have signed it, now could I? All you have to do is stay married to me long enough to write a document saying that and sign it in front of witnesses. I'll deliver it to Kansas City myself."

He stood up and handed her the letter. "I'll take you. He won't be able to say the document was forged if your husband shows up to refute his claims."

She looked away, her expression troubled. "I can't ask you to..."

"I'm offering. Consider it my repayment for causing you distress."

"I'm afraid I..."

"Don't say no, Abby." He took her hand and squeezed her fingers. "Let me do this for you, please."

"No. You've ignored me for long enough, Mr. Walsh. Before you say another word, tell me why I should trust you to spend another minute in my company without trying to hurt me."

"Because I let you go rather than watch you be unhappy."

She flinched and lowered her face, making him wonder what she was thinking. "What about your homestead? You can't leave it."

"I hired a caretaker. There's already a house on the property, so I doubt anyone will say a word. We can make Kansas City in less than two days on the train."

He walked her back to her little house and kissed her on the cheek when they reached her door. She blushed, turning away quickly to fumble with the latch. "You might as well come in. I'll make lunch and pack us some food for the trip."

She stepped aside to allow him through the door and he ducked his head as he entered her tiny home. He knew from having been there before that she kept a tidy house, but it seemed empty without the normal signs of her presence.

Once she'd filled the tiny stove with wood and washed her hands, she mixed flour and lard with a few splashes of buttermilk from a jar. The room grew warm from the stove and she checked the fire before sliding the first pan of biscuits into the oven. She twisted the lid off a jar of stewed beef, mixing it in a pot with flour and a jar of carrots. Her movements were economical and graceful as she moved about the tiny kitchen. While their food cooked, she filled a large kettle with water to heat for washing up.

Soon, she dished out the stew and set a basket of fluffy biscuits on the table. There wasn't any butter, but he didn't care. He devoured the first in two bites and reached for another before she'd joined him at the table.

Lifting an amused brow, she asked, "When was the last time you ate?"

He thought about it as he chewed. The last decent meal he'd had had been the rabbit he'd hunted on their wedding night. In the interest of their peaceful lunch, he decided it was best left out of the conversation. "Biscuits this good? Never."

"Thank you. My Aunt Louise taught me, but hers are much better. We'll stay with Archie and Jane, but they live right next door to her, so maybe we'll get some. I have raspberry preserves if you'd like." She hopped up, returning with a wax sealed jar and a spoon.

He took a bite of the stew, watching as she doctored hers with something from a clear bottle. "What's that?"

"It's pepper sauce. There's a woman from China who makes it. One of her children is a student and she gave it to me." She passed the bottle over. "Be careful, it's very hot."

He tipped a bit to one finger and tasted it. It was hot, but very flavorful. He shook a sprinkle into his stew and stirred it before taking a bite. Damnation, the woman was a fine cook. His bowl went empty before he knew it and he swiped up the last bit of gravy with another biscuit.

"There's more on the stove if you're still hungry. Stay out of the biscuits, though. I'm going to pack those up to take with us along with the last of the ham and cheese in the larder."

She spooned up the last of her stew and took her bowl to the sink. "Finish up. I'm going to use up the last of the buttermilk on more biscuits so it doesn't go bad. There's a comfortable chair in the sitting room if you'd like to rest a spell."

"I'll wash," he offered. "You do the biscuits while I finish eating and I'll clean up when they're done."

"All right. The train passes through at five tonight. We have time if you need anything from town."

She was silent as she rolled out the last of the biscuits. What happened to the man who had threatened to shoot her in the knee not two days ago? Was he some sort of changeling from those old stories her Irish grandmother used to tell? The man at her kitchen table hardly seemed to be the same person.

Would it be so bad to stay married to him? She still hated the idea of burying another husband, but if she could trust that he'd stay kind and gentle, maybe it was better that they try to work things out. Both Jane and Aunt Louise had tried to tell her she was too young to remain unmarried, but her grief had been too fresh and she couldn't listen to them.

When he excused himself to step outside, she watched him walk out and caught sight of the coiled whip still hanging from his saddlebag. Shuddering, she thrust the thought away. Maybe if he gave up on the idea of disciplining her... She jumped when he tapped on the door and opened it, chiding herself for her nerves.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, of course. The last of the biscuits will be done in a few minutes, but I can get out of your way if you want to start washing up." She moved out of the way and checked the time on the watch pinned to her bodice as she sat down at the table.

He rolled up his sleeves and spilled a bit of soap powder into the warm water, mixing it around with a cloth to dissolve it. "What do you do when you're not teaching?"

"I've been spending time putting up preserves and getting ready for winter. Folks have been very generous with the surplus from their gardens."

"Did yours not do well?"

She chuckled and shook her head. "No, I had plenty, almost more than I need. I just kept canning it all, but most of it will go to the church to distribute to needy folk." She traced circles on the table with a fingertip. "I have a big mess of canned beef from a half steer one of the ranchers gave me when I taught her son to do his figures. It was a godsend."

He was silent for a moment and didn't look at her. "I saw your savings, Abby. You could afford to live quite comfortably for a long time. Why are you accepting charity?"

She raised a brow and frowned. "It's not charity if I'm going to give most of it away. Besides, the money isn't mine." When he stiffened and turned on her, she shook her head. "I didn't mean that I stole it. I meant that it was Matthew's. He saved it from his work at the distillery and through wise investments. We'd planned to save it for a rainy day or for our retirement."

"I'd say it's just as much yours, honey. You told me yourself that you're the one who made the liquor."

"But..."

"Think about it."

She shut her mouth and did as he asked. She'd started off following Daddy Hartford's recipes when he'd passed and Matthew had begged for her help. By the time they'd married, she'd known she had a talent for it. They'd both worked so hard to make Hartford Distillers a success, and they'd each had a role to play. Matthew had been the man for business, dealing with suppliers and vendors, while she'd spent her time breathing the fecund scent of stillage among the copper kettles and white oak barrels. Aside from the corn, those barrels had been the only thing she'd concerned herself with; often handling the charring herself to produce the right amount of burn for each batch of her whiskey. She'd fired three coopers before Tony walked in begging for a job sweeping floors. He'd been a slave, but she didn't give a tinker's damn. He made her barrels like she wanted, and she'd paid him a princely sum to keep other distillers from tempting him away. Once Matthew had figured out that she'd only accept corn from a few growers who provided the correct mixture of sugar and moisture, she didn't worry about that, either.

"You're right. I never thought about it quite that way before." She stood up and laid a hand on his arm. "Thank you for reminding me."

"What did I remind you of, honey?"

"You reminded me that Hartford Distillers doesn't exist without me. I also know what I'm going to do with Matthew's money."

"What's that?"

She laughed and twirled around in the tiny kitchen. "I'm going to make Benjamin Hartford rich, and then I'm going to snatch the whole thing right out from under him."

+++++

Abby insisted on buying their tickets and paying the livery for his horse, telling him that it was only fair that she pay his way. It made his teeth clench to have a woman spend money on him, but he didn't argue. It made her happy and he couldn't stomach the thought of taking that pretty smile off her face. She'd bought them passage in one of the first-class berths, saying that she wanted to be fresh and rested before confronting Benjamin.

They shared supper in the dining car. She ignored the glares of the well-heeled passengers as she ate her roasted capon and winter squash. In the observation car after supper, she'd opened a slim volume and curled her legs under her.

"What are you reading?"

"Shakespeare."

"What light through yonder window breaks?" Her eyes widened with surprise and he chuckled. "I do read, sometimes."

Her eyes narrowed and she smirked. "Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends."

Her whiskey voice tickled his spine and he responded without thought. "The lunatic, the lover and the poet are of imagination all compact: one sees more devils than vast hell can hold, that is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic, sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt: the poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing. A local habitation and a name."

He opened his eyes, pinning her with his gaze. "Read to me, Mrs. Walsh."

The cadence of her voice rose and fell and he leaned back in his chair, ignoring the rich fools who leaned forward to listen, thinking to steal a little of his wife's beauty for themselves. Maybe she wouldn't be his wife for much longer, but he would enjoy the few days he'd be able to call her that. He wondered if he would be able to convince her to read about Petruchio and Kate.

She read until her eyes drifted shut and the book fell from her hands. Chuckling softly, he picked her up and carried her back to their berth. It was late, and she needed her rest. He pulled off her boots and tucked her under the crisp sheets. Looking at the hard leather chair across from the bed, he let out a curse and climbed in next to her.

She'd be his wife for such a short time, he wasn't about to miss the opportunity to sleep with her wrapped in his arms.

+++++

The porter knocked softly on the door to their berth. He opened the door and held a finger to his lips. The man nodded and carefully set the tray on the table. He handed the man a dollar coin for his trouble, knowing such an extravagant tip would get them impeccable service for the remainder of the trip.

He poured a cup of coffee from the carafe, enjoying the rich scent as he waited for Abby to wake up. Silver domes covered their meal and he peeked under one to find flapjacks, scrambled eggs, and thick slabs of bacon. His belly grumbled, but he decided to give her a few more minutes.

She stretched languorously and whispered his name. He held in a groan as his cock went hard under his pants. Rolling over, she reached a hand across the bed and grumbled when her fingers found empty sheets. She sat up, rubbing her eyes.

Glaring blearily at him, she asked, "What time is it?"

"It's about seven. The porter just brought breakfast if you're hungry."

"Damn, I'll have to tip him later."

"I took care of it. And don't cuss."

She had the grace to blush. "Sorry. I don't wake up well."

He filled the second cup and beckoned to her. "Come eat. After breakfast, we can go to the observation car and you can read some more."

She sipped her coffee, her moan of pleasure making him shift in his chair. "I think you'd be better suited to it. You recited part of my favorite play without a book in front of you."

He nodded and pulled the dome off his food. "As you wish."

"As you like it."

"Et tu, Brute?"

"What's past is prologue."

"Double, double toil and trouble."

She choked out a laugh and wiped her lips with a linen napkin. "Touché, Mr. Walsh. You play a good game."

He touched his fingers to the brim of his nonexistent hat and grinned. "Why, thank ya kindly, ma'am. It's always a joy to hear a kind word spoken by a purty lady."

The smile disappeared from her face and she put down her fork. "Why, Caleb?"

"Why what?"

"How is it that a man who threatened to shoot out my knee and abused me halfway across Colorado can recite Shakespeare? How is it that you knew to tip the porter?"

She stood up, suddenly infuriated. "How is it, Mr. Walsh? What sort of game are you playing?"

"Sit down, Abby."

His soft voice made her flinch and she settled back in her chair. It was the same tone he'd used when he told her about those damned one hundred and seventy lashes. "Just tell me why," she whispered.

He forked up a bite of his eggs and chewed thoughtfully. "We all have a past we'd prefer to forget. You have a husband who has passed and a malcontent of a brother in law. I have a Boston Brahma mother who insisted I become a physician."

"I beg your pardon?" She shook her head, trying to make sense of his words.

"I graduated from Harvard Medical School in 1885. My mother was so proud." His lip curled in distaste and he pushed his food away. "But it turns out, I'm not cut out for it. The minute I treated a poor man's child for measles, I was cast out of the social order. I might as well have been a leper."

"I'm so..."

He spoke right over her. "If you're planning to stay married to a doctor, forget it. If I can't keep my oath and treat those in need, I won't do it at all."

He refused to look at her, concentrating on the cold eggs in front of him. She stood up and walked around the table, shoving it out of the way so she could perch on his lap. He blinked at her in surprise and opened his mouth.

"Shut up, Caleb." She touched her lips to his mouth, tracing the seam of his lips with her tongue. "Did chasing cows all over Texas make you happy?"