and would ask how she could tell them apart. It was easy. Perhaps because she knew them so well.
Like right now. “Charles,” she said warningly. “Do not put that in your mouth.”
Little blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes looked up at her mournfully. Marie forced her gaze to remain stern as she shook her head. He dropped the pebble and returned to jumping, following his brother.
A heavy sigh settled deep in Marie’s lungs. It had taken four months to break him of sucking his thumb, and ever since the fire, rather than his thumb, Charlie was forever putting things in his mouth. Anything he could find. It was comforting for him, she understood that, but also extremely dangerous. Some days she wondered if she should allow him to suck his thumb, just until things were settled. The poor dear had been through so much.
They all had been through a lot, and it wasn’t over.
“Marie Hall?”
Startled, for she hadn’t heard anyone approach, Marie snapped her head around so fast her neck popped, making her flinch.
The bright sun only allowed her to make out the silhouette of a tall man with a wide-brimmed hat. Gathering her skirt, she rose to her feet. “Yes,” she answered, standing and shading her eyes with one hand.
Besides the hat, he had on a gun belt and a black leather vest. Dark brown hair hung past his shoulders and his chin was covered with a similarly colored beard. Marie couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder that raced over her skin. She’d come to understand most men out here wore guns, but she’d sincerely hoped Mick Wagner would be more civilized.
A lump formed in her throat. “Yes,” she repeated. Her nerves wouldn’t allow her to offer a hand in greeting, so she rested hers atop the heads of the twins who now stood one on each side of her. “I’m Marie Hall.”
“Are you the cowboy that’s gonna be our new da?”
That was Weston. He was the most verbal of the twins, and Marie stopped herself short of correcting him to say father instead of da. She had more important things to worry about. Such as how rough around the edges Mick Wagner appeared to be.
The others had gathered close, and Terrance pushed Weston’s shoulder. “We don’t need a new father.”
Being the oldest, Terrance was greatly opposed to Marie’s plan. She could understand a boy of ten wouldn’t want a new father, and she’d tried to explain they didn’t have another option. By proxy, Mick Wagner was now responsible for all six Meeker children. Making the man understand they came along with her was a concern. She hoped, with all she had, he would see their inclusion as a benefit.
There had been rumors, after a man named Walt Darter had ridden out to Mr. Wagner’s ranch last week, that Mick hadn’t ordered a bride. No one mentioned it to her, especially not Mr. Darter. He’d simply said Mick wasn’t home but that a message had been sent to him. She’d thanked Mr. Darter for his efforts and never let it be known she’d heard the whispers or seen the finger-pointing. Partially because it wasn’t a rumor. Mick Wagner hadn’t ordered a bride. And partially because she had no idea what she and the children would do if he didn’t claim them—soon.
“I—” She had to clear the squeak from her voice. “I’m assuming you’re Mr. Wagner.”
“Nope,” the man said.
Marie was still processing a wave of relief when Weston asked, “You’re not our new da?”
“Nope,” the man repeated.
“Are you a cowboy?” the child asked.
“Yep.” He winked at Weston. “Just the wrong cowboy.”
Marie couldn’t let Weston’s questions continue, yet hers floundered as she said, “Is Mr. Wagner...”
“I’m his partner,” the man said. “Stafford Burleson.”
Terrance snorted and bumped his shoulder into Samuel’s. “Stafford,” he whispered, as if finding great humor in the name. Samuel, seven and always eager to follow his older brother, snickered, as well.
Marie chose to ignore them. She’d learned, while being trained as a nursemaid, which battles were worth fighting when it came to children of every age. This wasn’t one. Besides, she couldn’t quite fathom a cowboy having such an unusual name, either. Not to mention she was more than a bit relieved to know this wasn’t the man she’d told everyone from here to Chicago had ordered her as a bride. “Is Mr. Wagner in town?” she asked. Several people had told her Mick Wagner’s ranch was a distance from Huron—too far for her and the children to travel alone.
Tipping the edge of his hat back, and giving her a very penetrating stare from eyes that looked to be as gray as a storm cloud, the man acted as if he wasn’t going to answer her questions.
Marie’s nerves started jumping faster than the grasshoppers the twins had been chasing. She’d been charging things in Mr. Wagner’s name since leaving Chicago. Soon the bills would be more than she’d be able to repay. That wasn’t her major concern—the children were—but with each day that passed, their financial situation had started to trouble her more and more.
Finally, when the air in her lungs had built up a tremendous pressure from his stare, Mr. Burleson said, “I’m here to take you to Mick’s place.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but her sigh was so long she wondered if her toes had been holding air. When it was all out, she nodded. “Well, thank you. We’ve been expecting he’d send someone.” In truth she’d been praying he’d come, or send someone, but she’d never allow the children to know she’d been worrying about the outcome of their adventure.
The man nodded. “We can head out in an hour.”
“An hour?” Still shaky with relief, it took Marie a moment to process his statement. Her thoughts shifted to everything that needed to be done before they left, and she shook her head. “That’s not possible. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Burleson’s stormy eyes glared again. “We’ll leave in an hour.”
“No, we won’t.” She spun about, gestured to the children. “Gather your playthings. It’s time to return to our rooms.”
They minded without question, for once, and she turned back to the man. “We’ll be ready to leave tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”
“It’s barely noon,” he said. “We can get a good number of miles under our belt yet today.”
“Tonight is bath night, Mr. Burleson,” she said, holding her ground. When it came to the children and their needs she’d argue until the sun set—dealing with the solicitor back in Chicago had taught her to not back down. No matter how frightening it was. “I will not have the children’s schedule upset.”
“You will not—”
“That’s correct,” she interrupted. “I will not.” No good nursemaid would, and she was the best nursemaid that had ever come out of Miss Wentworth’s training course. The owner herself had said as much. Marie had a document that proclaimed it in writing. She’d used it as a testimonial when interviewing for positions. Not that she’d need it anymore. Abandoning
