Wren stared out the kitchen window, watching Declan and Eldon walk to the bathhouse, and couldn't help but cluck her tongue before she turned to Emmaline and asked, "Are all boys as moody as him?"
"Some more than others," Emmaline nodded, "Declan surely was—still is, even at his age. I'm not sure it's something they grow out of."
Wren grunted.
"Takes after his daddy that way, rest his soul," Emmaline softly added after a moment, laying several strips of bacon on the hot cast iron pan on the stove's front burner.
"That answers my next question," Wren sighed, turning to her bowl of dry ingredients and adding the egg and milk for the hotcakes.
"And what question was that, dear?"
Wren cradled the bowl in her arms, hugging it to her body, and began stirring the batter as she leaned her hip against the counter to look at Emmaline, "If Declan's always been the way he is... or if it's only since bein' here."
"The way he is?"
Wren nodded. "Him bein' a jackass and all."
"He surely is one of those, Wren honey," Emmaline chuckled. "Got that from his daddy too... cut from the same cloth they were—in every way but appearance... Wooly is Norman's spitting image."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the sizzling and spattering of bacon grease in the pan until Emmaline said, "There are days I look at Declan, amazed at what a fine man he's turned out to be—further amazed we're still on speaking terms—because the Good Lord knows in those first several years after Norman... died... I did not like him... I loved him because he was my son and a living reminder of my cherished husband. But countless nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering how any of us would survive when Declan was a nightmare to be around."
"We ready for hotcakes yet?" Wren murmured, wanting to know more but unsure how to ask when it was apparent the topic was not a pleasant one.
"Just about," Emmaline nodded, smiling at Wren over her shoulder. Then returning her attention to the bacon, she transferred several crispy strips to a nearby plate, adjusted a few more in the pan, and said, "The important thing to remember when dealing with Declan is despite his moodiness and bluster... and heaven knows he has more than enough of both—especially at times when you're not in the emotional state to deal with a teaspoon's worth," she paused and sighed and scooped out a few strips, then continued, "when he's at his absolute worst and declares, 'I'm a jackass, remember?'"
Wren snorted a laugh.
Emmaline winked at her and gently added, "Know that deep inside, he has one of the kindest, gentlest, and most generous hearts I've ever known."
"I've noticed," Wren murmured.
"And," Emmaline whispered, transferring the last strips of bacon to the waiting plate, then covering it with another before setting her fork on the counter and turning to settle her hands on Wren's shoulders. "I'll let you in on a little secret that took me twenty-nine years to figure out about him if you'd like."
Wren grinned as she softly replied, "I'm not gonna pass on an offer like that."
Glancing out the kitchen window first, Emmaline gently brushed a wisp of hair out of Wren's face and tucked it behind her left ear, then leaned in and quietly said, "He's only ever truly a jackass when he's scared, worried, or guilty—though he'll deny any of those reasons to be the cause."
"Then d'you think him avoidin' me yesterday—"
"Without a doubt, he was either scared or worried about something, honey," Emmaline chuckled.
"Really?"
Emmaline nodded, "Though only heaven knows the exact cause with that boy."
"What do I do?"
"I'm guessing you confronted him last night like you said you would?"
Wren nodded.
Emmaline smiled. "And how'd that go?"
Vivid memories of her passion-filled night with Declan flashed within Wren's mind as heat crept up her chest to her hairline.
"I see," Emmaline murmured with a warm grin curling her lips.
Clearing her throat, Wren smiled in return as she whispered, "Well, I asked if I'd done or said somethin' to make him avoid me like I was some hideous beast, and he reminded me he was a jackass—which I'd forgotten—"
"That's a first for him—"
"He said the same thing," Wren giggled, then quietly continued, "told me he hadn't intended on hurtin' m'feelin's... though he admitted it was bound to happen again—"
"And he's correct," Emmaline quietly said, her eyes filled with compassion.
Setting her bowl of batter on the counter, Wren sighed. "But I think he meant it when he said he'd try to be more aware of m'feelin's in the future."
"He told you that?"
Wren forced a swallow and nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me you were gonna be frying up bacon this morning, Mama?" Wolstan asked, sniffing the air with a dramatic sigh as he and Mae walked into the kitchen ahead of Emerson. "Mae and I wouldn't have slept so long."
Emmaline squeezed Wren's shoulder and kissed her left cheek as she whispered, "We'll talk about this more later, honey." Then walking around her, she greeted Emerson with a kiss and grinned at her son, "I did tell you about the bacon, but you said you and Mae were gonna be busy with your morning drawings."
Wolstan turned to Mae, his brow puckering in a comical frown, "I don't recall—"
"Drawing sure is much noisier nowadays than I remember it being when we were their age, Linney," Emerson chuckled.
Wolstan choked on a laugh, and Mae flushed bright red.
Emmaline grinned as she arched a brow and murmured, "Moving furniture?"
"Mm-hmm," Emerson nodded, snaking an arm around her waist and hugging her to his side. "I'd say at least that big ol' dresser and steamer trunk by the amount of grunting—"
Wren burst out laughing, no longer able to contain her amusement at remembering Eldon's confusion and comments about the furniture in her room. "I have to tell you what Eldon said this mornin'," she gaspingly giggled, then allowed the words to tumble free, painting a vivid picture so that by the time Declan and Eldon entered several moments later, they found the four of them doubled over in hysterics with tears cascading down their faces, and nothing was ready for breakfast except a plate of cold bacon.
Once he'd finished eating, Declan mumbled an excuse to his family before pressing a quick kiss to Wren's lips, set his dirty dishes in the sink, then wasted no time grabbing his hat and gun belt, saddling Sweetface and escaping to join the ranch hands out tending the herd.
Keeping his mount to a plodding walk, Declan took a deep gulp of the crisp autumn air until oxygen filled his lungs to capacity, held it, then slowly exhaled when his chest started to burn as he tried to calm the anxiety coiling in a tight knot and making breathing an agonizing feat.
He wasn't even sure what he was panicking over and made a quick mental list in a vain attempt to make the sensation disappear. His family was safe and provided for, they had food on their table, a roof over their head, and they were happy—joyful even—the laughter filling the big house this morning was proof of that.
But no matter the number of deep breaths he took to ease the painful lump in his chest, Declan couldn't shake his anxiety or the growing desire to return home to Wren. It didn't make sense.
Declan muttered an expletive and adjusted his hat.
Maybe that was the issue—there wasn't a problem to be worried over at all; it was only his heart being lonesome for her. And he hadn't even been gone more than twenty minutes, which meant the next eight hours until dinner were bound to be pure torture, so he better find a way to distract himself before he gave in.
Suddenly, a shrill whistle pierced the air, gaining Declan's attention, and he scanned the area for its source until he spotted Quincy ahead, waiving his arms while mounted on his sorrel named Rusty.
Nudging Sweetface into a gallop, Declan clenched his jaw, praying the long-time ranch hand wasn't about to inform him there were more mutilated heifers.
"Everything all right?" Declan asked, reining Sweetface in once he reached Quincy.
"Got four calves missin'," he said with a shake of his head and a worried frown. "Their mama's have been bellowin' for 'em all mornin' long, but the babies ain't comin'. So I's hopin' you might head out toward the muddy creek in the north pasture lookin' for 'em; I'll go lookin' in the east, see if they got stuck down the ravine—that's as close as Jeb, and Billy managed to track 'em so far. The other boys'll stay with the rest of the herd; make sure none of the others wander off 'fore we get back."
Declan's stomach clenched into knots as he asked, "D'you think Chet's behind it?"
"Can't say for certain," Quincy replied, concern plain on his face, "but can't rule it out none either since we haven't heard from the marshal yet to say they've caught him."
Declan stared between Sweetface's ears for a brief moment, torn between galloping home to ensure Wren, Eldon, and his family were safe and seizing the opportunity he'd all but been gifted to distract himself with for what could be the next several hours.
"How long have they been out looking for them?" Declan asked, pushing away the guilt that stabbed him for choosing the calves as he nudged Sweetface to fall in step beside Quincy.
The cowboy squinted at the sky, then looked at Declan, "'Bout three hours now."
"All right," Declan murmured.
"You good on rope?" Quincy asked, retrieving a coiled length from the back of his saddle and holding it out. "Better take this just in case."
Declan looped it around his saddle horn and nodded, "Appreciate it. Be safe out there."
"You as well," Quincy said with a tip of his hat before riding toward the east pasture.
"Well, Sweetface," Declan sighed, petting the horse's neck, "let's go see if we can't find us a wandering calf or two and bring it home to its mama."
Sweetface nickered and stomped her hoof, then, of her own accord, took off at a gallop heading northwest. Figuring it was close enough and hoping she might know something the rest of them didn't, Declan didn't correct her course until they approached the muddy creek, then reined her in and dismounted, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of fresh hoof prints.
He searched for hours without any luck until mid-afternoon when he found a set of three tracks wandering further north, following the sharp switchbacks of the creek; then, at reaching a grouping of dense undergrowth and ravine to his left, he was rewarded with a small chorus of distressed moo's.
"What d'you think, Sweetface? They take a tumble?" Declan muttered, scanning the mucky soil and torn roots where the tracks ended in a wide swath through the brushy ravine before being swallowed in thick vegetation and cottonwoods at the bottom.
As though in answer, a black poll-headed calf popped up through the bushes ten feet down and bawled at him, followed by two more in quick succession, struggling to gain their footing and climb the steep walls of the ravine to no avail.
Looking Sweetface in the eye, Declan patted her on the neck, then propped his fists on his hips and said with a grin bending his lips, "We're gonna have our work cut out for us, girl... but between you and me—and that tree right there, I think we just might be able to get all three of them up here without any of us breaking our necks."
Sweetface tossed her head and snorted, but Declan refused to take it as a sign she believed they'd fail and grabbed both coiled ropes from his saddle, then spent the next few hours working out the kinks between horse and terrified calf.
Then, finally, with sweat pouring down his face and neck, saturating his shirt, making it stick to his arms with every move he made, and his stomach grumbling louder than the threatening clouds rumbling overhead, blotting out the sun, Declan wrestled the last of the three calves up the ravine just as a shrill, warbling whistle caught his attention.
With his chest heaving, Declan adjusted his hat and settled his gloved fists on his hips as he let out the answering whistle, scanning the area for his brother or uncle, the only two people who would have made that particular noise.
The whistle came again from the southeast, closer, and Declan whistled back in reply, glancing over his shoulder at the calves to ensure they hadn't ruined his hard work.
"DECLAN," Wolstan shouted, galloping into view and instantly filling Declan with dread.
Thunder crashed, followed by a blazing bolt of lightning piercing the sky several seconds later, and fat raindrops splattered against Declan's skin in a torrential downpour just as Wolstan reined in and panted, "I've been out looking for you for the past two hours. I'll finish up with this; you should get home—Wren's hurt."
The acrid scent of smoke filled Wren's nostrils, heightening her misery as she lay atop her bed covers in her nightgown.
Bandages made from a torn sheet swathed her right arm from mid-bicep to wrist, and her swollen right ankle lay propped on several pillows as she performed a mental inventory of all her aches and pains, realizing everything hurt in varying degrees from the top of her head to the tips of her toes—even her hair, which she'd never thought was possible till now.
And over the past few hours, it had become inescapable, rolling through her in undulating, savage waves made all the worse by the horrible fact Declan had yet to arrive.
Not that his being there would do anything to improve her situation other than let her know he cared for her, even if she'd made it known she was against Wolstan riding off to get him in the first place.
After all, she'd only slipped and tumbled down the stairs—a near-daily, sometimes hourly occurrence—on her way to start washing laundry.
Everything that happened after was purely due to having twisted her ankle in the fall and hitting her head on the floor when she landed.
"How's that?" Emmaline whispered, carefully easing her weight onto the bed at Wren's left hip and taking her hand. "Any better with the curtains closed, honey?"
Wren attempted to open her eyes but abandoned the effort with a groan when the whirling sensation in her head increased tenfold. "It's difficult to tell...."
"Still feeling dizzy?" Emerson quietly asked when her voice trailed off into silence.
"Yep," Wren murmured, swallowing against the bile burning the back of her throat and the growing urge to vomit.
"I need a candle," Emerson muttered. "We ever find that crate, Linney?"
"There's some in the kitchen," Wren whispered, trying to remain as motionless as possible, "the bottom middle drawer in the hutch... along with a holder."
"All right, I'll go grab one. Think you can sit up for a minute or two? I don't want to spill candle wax on you."
"Layin' flat isn't makin' anythin' better," Wren quietly grumbled, though she dreaded the thought of moving. "My head's spinnin' either way."
"You feeling nauseous too?"
"Yep."
Emerson clucked his tongue, hesitating before he murmured, "I'll grab a bucket along with a candle and be right back."
"Where's Eldon?" Wren asked, wincing as Emerson's retreating bootheels echoed in her brain as loud as the roaring thunder outside.
"Mae's keeping him occupied in the kitchen," Emmaline whispered. "Took a little bit to calm him down after seeing you fall headlong into the wash pot and fire the way you did—"
"No one else got hurt, did they?" Wren asked, cringing as visions of her last few conscious moments taking her burdensome load of laundry outside flashed through her mind, and the discordant metallic thwack of her skull against the cast iron cauldron reverberated in her ears.
"No, dearest," Emmaline gently assured with a comforting maternal pat on her hand. "I'm grateful I'd only just finished filling the pot; otherwise, you would have been scalded, burned, and beaten upside the head, let alone what's happened to your poor ankle."
Wren opened her eyes a bare slit and smiled, "When you lump it all together like that, there's no disguisin' how ungraceful I am."
Emmaline chuckled.
"How bad do I look?"
"Well, you're still beautiful as a sunrise, honey... you just have a special evening glove and magical slipper now that you'll wear for several weeks."
A soft giggle escaped Wren, and her heart swelled with love for the silver-haired woman she was now blessed to have as her mother-in-law. "You forgot to mention the goose egg on my forehead, making me feel like my head's been split wide open."
"What's a sunrise without a mountain range?" Emmaline softly chuckled.
Wren snorted a laugh, then groaned.
"Oh, I'm sorry. That was wicked of me, making you laugh when you're already in so much pain."
"No," Wren sighed, smiling, "it was worth it."
"Well, I'll try to behave myself so it doesn't happen again," Emmaline quietly promised as Emerson's footsteps sounded on the staircase. "There'll be plenty of time to laugh about this when you're feeling better."
Wren hesitated, sensing deep inside it was a pointless question, but needing an answer nonetheless, "What about my dress—"
"There's no saving it," Emmaline said with such bluntness that Wren couldn't help but smile. "It's scorched to pieces all up the right side, and Emerson had to cut the sleeve off to clean and bandage the burns on your arm while you were still unconscious."
"That's a shame," Wren wistfully sighed, fighting back tears as she allowed her eyes to drift closed again. "It was my favorite."
"There'll be others, honey," Emmaline whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "you're far more important and irreplaceable to this family than any old dress ever will be."
"Found a candle and holder. Any new developments while I was away?" Emerson asked, walking into the room.
"We've been carrying on a delightful conversation, my love," Emmaline replied, "so you could say it's an improvement from before."
"That's good to hear... 'scuse me, Linney dear," Emerson murmured, setting the bucket down on the floor near the bed with a gentle wooden thunk, "mind if we change places? I want to recheck a few things."
Wren clenched her eyes shut and bit back a groan as the bed shifted between Emmaline standing and Emerson easing onto the edge at her side.
"Apologies," Emerson softly said, striking a match and filling the air with the scent of sulfur and beeswax. "All right, Wren. Now, on the count of three, I'm gonna help you sit up—"
"Is this an actual count of three or an element of surprise three?" Emmaline asked. "Because if it's the latter, I would strongly advise against—"
"I'd never use such tactics on a lady, Linney," Emerson laughingly interrupted. "Especially one who's concussed—"
"WREN?" Declan shouted, his voice filled with alarm as the kitchen door ricocheted against the wall, and Eldon and Mae let out surprised yelps. "Where is she?"
Wren's heart slammed against her ribs at hearing his beloved deep timbre, and muscles that had been clenched with mounting tension relaxed, one by one, easing her discomfort.
"Oh, dear," Emmaline murmured. "Perhaps I should go explain before...."
But it was too late. Because in the next several seconds, Declan's footfalls thundered up the staircase, and a few heartbeats later, his shadow darkened the doorway, smelling of rain, leather, and mud. "What'd you do? Hold a personal witch trial and find yourself guilty, or decide you needed purification by fire and water after two days of marriage to me?"
"Declan," Emmaline scolded, "she's been through enough today, so she doesn't need you storming in here, accusing her of such nonsense when she isn't to blame."
But Wren didn't take exception to his gruff, almost bullying tone and pushed herself onto her elbows with a groan. Then, forcing her eyes open, she looked at the two of him walking toward her as she softly chuckled, "The latter."
His eyes swept over her from head to toe, taking in every scorched, battered, and bandaged inch before his throat convulsed on a swallow, and he growled, "What happened?"
"Why don't you change into some dry clothes first so you're not dripping water all over Wren's clean floors?" Emmaline said, her tone brooking no argument, "That'll allow Uncle Em a moment to recheck a few things. There'll be plenty of time to explain everything afterward, dear."
Declan's eyebrows slammed together in a heavy frown, and he looked like he was going to argue, but then he quickly stripped down to his long johns, tossing his wet clothes in the empty wicker basket near the wardrobe—all while keeping his gaze focused on Wren—before donning a clean shirt and pair of trousers.
Then standing barefoot, he folded his arms across his broad chest, arched an expectant brow at his mama, and repeated, "What happened?"
"So much like your daddy," Emmaline muttered with a tender smile and shake of her head, then turned to Wren and said, "Would you like to tell him, or shall I?"
Pushing herself to a sitting position, then clenching her eyes closed when the room dipped and spun at an extreme angle, Wren welcomed Emerson's steadying hand on her left arm and took several cautious, deep breaths before opening her eyes a bare slit to find Declan's two concerned faces crouched at her side. "The stairs were starvin'... it went downhill from there—"
"Literally, by the looks of it," he grumbled.
"Declan," Emmaline chided as Emerson grabbed the candle holder and moved the candle from side to side in front of Wren's face, murmuring, "Pay no attention to him; I want you to look straight ahead while I check your eyes, all right?"
Wren resisted the urge to nod and whispered, "Yep."
"She fell in a fire, Mama," he growled, standing to his full height and motioning to Wren's scorched dress draped over the trunk at the foot of the bed. "I'm stating the obvious."
"Then, considering the terrible day you can see she's had, you could be more courteous," Emmaline retorted, folding her arms under her bosom, "she's your wife, not some—"
"I know who she is; I don't need the reminding—"
"Obviously you do—"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Watch your tone, Declan," Emerson grumbled over his shoulder, then blew out the candle and set the candle holder on the bedside table before helping Wren lay down. "And no more arguing. Wren needs rest and quiet, so either leave till you've simmered down or become a living embodiment of tranquility. Understand?"
Declan shifted his weight, hesitating before softly asking, "For how long?"
Emerson gave Wren's left hand a consoling pat, then turned to face Declan, his voice grim when he answered, "Between the concussion and her ankle, she's going to be bedridden for the next few weeks at best... a couple of months at worst, which means until the dizziness and seeing double cease, and she can bear weight on her foot—"
"She'll be dependent on me," Declan hoarsely whispered.