Liz Ireland Read Free

you married one, she’d sure count.”
    “Well I’m not going to marry one,” Roy replied.
    “Wilber Whitestone did—that pretty yellow-haired girl named Marie.” Ike crossed his arms as if he’d just won an argument.
    Roy rolled his eyes. “But I’m not going to marry anybody.”
    Parker laughed. “Don’t worry, Roy, I’m not embracing matrimony. Even if I wanted to, I doubt Miss Fitzsimmons would have me.”
    That assurance didn’t soothe Roy any, either. In fact, it made him downright mad. “Why? Does this Fitzsimmons lady think she’s too good for you?”
    Parker shook his head. “She’s not like that. But from what she’s written me, I know that she lives pretty well. A big house in a neighborhood where all the richest people in New York live. You should hear the parties she’s described—the food and the dancing and the people! Do you know that the Vanderbilt family visits her home?” He continued to shake his head, clearly impressed with such opulence. “A fine society lady wouldn’t be interested in moving to a dusty four-room house in western Nebraska.”
    “Sounds pretty hopeless, all right,” Ike admitted.
    “Good,” Roy said. “Women are more trouble than they’re worth.”
    “I don’t know…” Ike put in. “My mama was an awful hard worker, and so were my sisters. In fact, Roy, a woman can be a handy thing to have around the house. They can do all sorts of things that you probably never think about.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well…they can cook, for instance.”
    “We can all cook just fine,” Roy argued.
    Ike and Parker’s gazes subtly surveyed the remains of their dinner, which, incidentally, Roy had prepared. He knew what they were thinking. He himself had to admit that the corn bread had tasted leathery, and all right, he’d charred the ham a little. Personally, he liked that smokey flavor. The beans had come out mushy—but that was just because while he’d been cooking them, he’d also been working on sharpening the blade on the old plow. Time had gotten away from him.
    “Most of the time, we do just fine,” Roy reiterated.
    “Oh, sure,” Ike agreed. “Not to mention, it’s folks like us what keep the indigestion-pill salesmen in business. But cooking aside, women can also mend things, and keep a house tidy, and help out with chickens and churn butter.” His gaze took on a faraway look. “If you could have tasted my mama’s butter….”
    Several times a month they were treated to rhapsodies on the subject of Ike’s sainted mama. At times like these, the only thing to do was either nod politely or change the subject.
    Roy changed the subject. He still couldn’t stop worrying about the highfalutin’ female writing Parker letters. “If this Fitzsimmons woman is so busy with these Vanderbilts all the time, what’s she writing to you for?”
    Parker lifted his shoulders. “She’s curious about the west, and she saw my advertisement for a correspondent. That’s all. We talk about books, and music, and things of that nature.”
    Ike grinned. “Knowing this Miss Fitzsimmons is better than goin’ to college, it sounds like.”
    “Much better,” Parker agreed.
    Parker had a reputation in Paradise of being something of a self-taught intellectual. He’d given a Fourth of July speech once on Thomas Jefferson that had impressed everyone it hadn’t put to sleep. Roy didn’t mind having an intellectual as a brother. He was proud of his little brother’s smarts. A lovesick intellectual, however, was a trial. “As long as you’re sure that’s all there is to it.”
    Parker laughed. “Don’t worry, Roy. The McMillan bachelor tradition will continue.”
    Ike scratched his scraggly beard and turned to Roy. “How long is this so-called tradition gonna last, if’n you and Parker don’t have kids? Where’s the next crop of bachelors supposed to come from?”
    Parker looked over at Roy, a mischievous smile on his face. “He has a point, Roy. Looks like