Page 33 of Short-Straw Bride

How was a man supposed to prepare for his wedding day when he didn’t even know if the bride was going to show up? Not that he blamed Meredith for her indecision. A person needed time to settle something this big in her mind. It was just that he was accustomed to being the one who did the settling. He gathered input from his brothers, chewed over the ramifications, rendered a verdict, and put it into action. Simple. Direct. Practical.

Meredith, on the other hand, left him stuck in the chewing phase while she mulled through her problem without his assistance. He’d been tempted more than once to knock on her door and ask if she’d reached any conclusions, but good sense had prevailed and he’d left her alone. Now that the sun had crested the horizon and it was officially morning, however, the desire to know his fate had him back on edge.

The razor snagged a spot on his chin, and Travis scowled as a drop of blood beaded on his jaw. Great. With the way things were going, he’d end up with enough scratches on his face to have Meredith thinking one of the displaced barn cats had mistaken him for a mouse. Not exactly the impression one wanted to make on a woman who had yet to make up her mind concerning his worthiness as a mate. He’d dug himself into a deep enough hole last night without inviting more unfavorable scrutiny this morning.

“Coffee’s on,” Jim growled in a sleep-roughened voice as he plodded through the bathing room, the wire egg basket dangling from his meaty fingers.

Travis had never really noticed how incongruous a picture the big man made carrying the thin basket, since Jim had been in charge of all food chores and cooking duties since the time he was ten. But as Travis held his razor away from his neck and watched his brother exit, he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to have Meredith squeeze past him with the basket, her skirt brushing his pant leg, maybe a smile curving her lips as their eyes met in the shaving mirror.

The sting of the blade biting into his neck brought him back to reality. “Thunderation!” He hadn’t been this clumsy with a shave since he was Neill’s age.

“Nervous, Trav?” Crockett stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb. The fellow looked far too well rested and chipper for Travis’s taste, and the teasing gleam in his brother’s eye rubbed over him like sandpaper.

“Worried she’ll turn you down, or afraid she won’t?”

Travis glared at him in the mirror and swiped the razor under his chin for the final stroke. Ignoring the quiet chuckle behind him, Travis set the blade aside and rinsed the soap residue from his face before toweling dry. If he was lucky, Crockett would be gone by the time he finished.

He lowered the towel from his face and stole a glance toward the door. Drat. Luck never had favored him much.

“You know, I could stand in for you if you’re not up to the task.”

The words lit a fuse in Travis. He twisted to face his brother fully and jabbed his finger into Crockett’s chest. “Leave it alone.”

Tossing down the towel, he shoved his way through the blocked doorway and stormed over to the stove to check the coffee. As he reached into the cupboard to retrieve a mug, however, his conscience nudged him. Taking the cup in hand, he slowly reined in his temper. After a long moment, he reached for a second mug.

Travis poured two cups of coffee and motioned for Crockett to join him at the table. “Sorry I snapped at you.”

Crockett shrugged and slid into a chair. “I knew the spot would be sore when I prodded it.”

Travis shot a glare at him. “Then why’d you bring it up? For pete’s sake, Crock, we’re in enough of a mess without you stirring up more trouble. The matter’s been decided. If Meredith chooses to marry, she’ll marry me. That’s the end of it.”

Instead of firing back, Crockett stared at him over his coffee cup as he sipped the steaming brew. The silent survey lasted so long, Travis grew uncomfortable and finally dropped his gaze, suddenly finding it imperative that he unroll his shirtsleeves and fasten the button at each cuff.

The sound of Crockett’s mug coming to rest on the tabletop brought Travis’s head back up. The sparkle he was accustomed to seeing in his brother’s eye glowed once again.

“I needed to be sure Meredith was marrying the right Archer.”

Travis raised a brow. “And?”

Crockett smirked and lifted his cup to his lips. “Let’s just say my concerns have been addressed.”

15

Meredith twisted from side to side, examining her appearance in the mirror above Travis’s bureau. Some bride she made, dressed in faded calico. In her dreams, she’d always worn blue brocaded satin with lace at the neckline and cuffs. She’d imagined her hair done up in an elaborate style. Perhaps a pearl comb or a spray of tiny flowers tucked into her tresses, depending on the time of year.

But with over half of her hairpins missing following her run-in with Samson, the best she’d managed was a braided chignon low on her nape. Her bangs had lost most of their curl and frizzed a bit at her forehead. She wound a strand around her finger, counted to fifty, and released it, but the rebellious ringlet failed to hold its curl. Huffing out a breath that sent all her bangs fluttering, Meredith smoothed a hand over her tremulous stomach and lifted her chin.

So what if this wasn’t to be the wedding of her dreams. She was marrying the man of her dreams. That would be enough. Besides, a wedding was only an event. It was the life together following it that truly mattered. Grow up, Meri. It’s time to start putting sensibility ahead of sentimentality.

Her shoulders sagged a bit as she examined the worn navy housedress hanging from her frame in all its wrinkled glory. Was it too sentimental to wish for a prettier dress to wear? She sighed. At least it didn’t smell like smoke. The green dress she’d worn the night of the fire stank of the stuff, and she worried she might not be able to get all the soot stains out. One thing was for sure—when she took over the cleaning duties around here, laundry was going to top her list.

A knock sounded on the door. The butterflies she’d willed into submission earlier burst forth in a flurry of batting wings.

“Meri?” Travis’s voice. “Your breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you. I’ll . . . I’ll be right there.” She spun away from the mirror and gripped the bedpost a final time, more to steady her nerves than her feet. Closing her eyes, she mentally recited her version of the promise of Romans 8:28. “All things will work together for good. All things will work together for good.”

Then, with a lift of her chin, she opened her eyes and strode to the door. She grasped the handle and pulled, only to find Travis waiting for her. He straightened from where he’d rested his back against the opposite wall, his widening eyes traversing from her face, down the length of her, and back up to her eyes. When his gaze connected with hers, the flare of male appreciation he failed to tame sent warm tingles skittering over her skin before he hid it behind a look of apology.