Lassoing A Mail-Order Bride Page 13

  He paused with a heavy sigh. “Then you took that guilty burden from me when you said you couldn’t leave without them. It was you who saved those little girls. Not me. You’re a good woman, Tessa. Too good for an old saddle bum the likes of me, who’s tried all his life to build something that’ll last for generations to come and make it easier on the grandkids and great-grandkids than what I had growing up in Arkansas.”

  When he stroked her cheek, it was all she could do to keep from pressing his hand to her face. Then he dropped his arm to his side, leaving a cold, hollow emptiness gripping her heart.

  Pushing past the tears on the edge of her breaking heart, she said, “You’ve read the newspapers. You know I’m the suspected accomplice. I need you to believe me that I had nothing to do with it, and I’m implicated maliciously. But what does it matter now? Damage done cannot be undone. I’d hoped by marrying you and changing my name, I could blend into the West, and what was in my past wouldn’t matter. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. Tomorrow, I’ll take the children to Louise and ask her to watch them while I pack my belongings. I’ll move on with the last train—”

  “That’s what’s eating me up.”

  She sat back, uncertain she’d heard correctly. “What?”

  “Much as I don’t want you to, you’d best read the article in that last paper.” He went to the porch railing, bracing his hands on the top, shoulders slumped, and head hanging as if having taken the last devastating defeat he could stand.

  Taking out the paper, Tessa tilted it to better catch the kitchen light. She had to read it twice to be sure of what it said. Lowering the paper to her lap, she looked at Simon, her thoughts as jumbled as her feelings. It was over. Her ordeal was finished. She didn’t understand what was wrong. Placing the paper aside, she stood and took a step toward him.

  “Simon—”

  He raised a hand, but didn’t turn. “Don’t. Don’t make leaving harder than it has to be.”

  Tessa moved to his side and touched his chin with gentle fingers to turn his face toward hers. “Simon, you read it. I’m not the woman they’re looking for. I don’t have to hide any longer.” She’d never seen such sadness, such loneliness as she saw in his eyes. Her heart ached for him. Then she saw something else, and she knew.

  Stepping away, the joy of a moment ago drained away in bitter loss. It was too much of a scandal; his trust was gone. He didn’t want her now, even though he’d confessed his love.

  “I understand. I rather not abandon the children while they’re sleeping. I want to say goodbye, but if you’d prefer I wasn’t here in the morning, I’ll go now. I do need a little time to pack, but I can drive myself to town. Ben will bring the buckboard back tomorrow—”

  He slammed his fist on the wooden railing, raising his voice for the first time since they’d met. “Damn it, Tessa. Can’t you see this is tearing me up? I don’t want you to leave. The kids need you. I need you. You need us.” He spun around, grabbed her shoulders in his big hands, and shook her in his fervor, nearly lifting her off her feet. “What’s back in Reese Point that I can’t give you right here?”

  He released her and leaned against the railing, rubbing his hands over his face and shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rough you up. I don’t normally get that riled up.”

  Unscathed, she still backed away with a slow understanding of what had happened. “You think I want to go back to Michigan now that I can.”

  When he looked at her, she saw the loss of all his hopes and dreams passing in waves of grief across his eyes. “It’s your home, isn’t it? You would never have left if you hadn’t been forced to. I didn’t want to show you the papers. I wanted to keep it from you so you’d stay, but Ben said he’d tell you if I didn’t. He said I owed it to you—and he’s right, I do.”

  “What do I owe you? I wasn’t truthful. I led you to believe I was someone I was not.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t owe me a thing. We’re square. You helped me get custody of my grandkids and, for that, I can never thank you enough.”

  She watched him while sorting out her thoughts. She didn’t blame him for doubting her motives. For a few misunderstood moments, she’d doubted him, too. But now, she knew what she had to do.

  Crossing the short distance between them, she stood so close that the breeze fluttered her skirts around his trouser legs. “Simon Driscoll, this is all I have to say about this.” Grasping handfuls of his shirt, she pulled him closer. “Will you marry me…again…in a church? I’ll use my real name just to make sure it’s legal.”

  His eyes went wide, and she couldn’t maintain her scowl. A slow smile softened the worry lines on his forehead, and he chuckled.

  “Why, Theodosia Morrison, you certainly know how to woo a man. I accept your proposal. We’ll even take a few days for a honeymoon to Denver. I’ve got a little extra money stashed away for emergencies, so it won’t set us back. We’ll manage until we sell the calves next month.”

  “Hmm.” Tessa pursed her lips and wiggled her eyebrows with a little grin curling the corners of her mouth. “Yes…somehow I do believe we’ll get by.” She took his hand and led him toward the kitchen. “Remember that inheritance I mentioned?”

  “What about it?”

  He opened the door, and she stepped across the threshold ahead of him, pecking a playful kiss on his lips as she passed. “You might want that whiskey before I tell you.”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her to his body, trapping her in a tight embrace. “Mrs. Driscoll, have I mentioned you’re full of the darnedest surprises?”

  Rising up on her tiptoes as he bent to kiss her, she mumbled against his lips, “Once or twice, Mr. Driscoll, once or twice.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR—KAYE SPENCER

  Kaye Spencer, also writing as A. L. Debran, creates romances from her basement hovel in a quiet little neighborhood in rural southeastern Colorado. While drawn to cowboys and the Old West, all genres are within her story-crafting realm. Growing up on a ranch, listening to Marty Robbins’s gunfighter ballads, reading Louis L’Amour’s westerns, and watching ‘classic’ TV westerns influenced her love of the Old West. Recently retired from a long career in education, Kaye is enjoying being a full-time writer and spoiler of grandchildren. To learn more about Kaye, visit her website at www.kayespencer.com

  THE BIG UNEASY

  Kathleen Rice Adams

  A man in love with a woman he can’t have. A woman engaged to a man she doesn’t love. A secret in common could destroy them all.

  Chapter One

  June 1860, the Texas Crescent

  Josephine LaPierre nearly tumbled from the seat when the buggy’s wheel struck yet another hole in the muddy road. She gripped the padded armrest with one hand and steadied the tiny dog in her lap with the other. Vibration beneath her gloved fingers warned of an impending explosion of temper.

  “Hush, Napoleon.” She scratched behind his bat-like ears until he quieted. “All is well, mon petit.”

  Napoleon sneezed. After turning three circles in her lap, he nestled into Jo’s skirt. She bestowed a fond smile upon her fearsome bodyguard, running a hand across the top of his head and down his smooth back. Her tiny knight in soft, fawn-colored armor.

  The man beside her took the horse in hand with a flick of his wrist, passing an amused glance over Jo and the dog. “Feisty little critter, ain’t he?”

  The suppressed laughter in startling blue eyes sent a flicker of heat dancing across Jo’s cheekbones. She looked away. “He can be. I warn you, his bark is not worse than his bite.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Chuckling, the driver scratched the top of the little dog’s head.

  Jo tensed, prepared to intervene, but Napoleon stretched toward his admirer and licked the man’s glove.

  The driver withdrew his hand to run a finger between his stand-up collar and his neck. Then he swatted at his dark broadcloth trousers and frockcoat as if they inconvenienced him, as well. “I imagine this trip’s been
a mite rough on you and that little fella.”

  Not in the least disposed to admit her posterior might never be the same, Jo pulled on the most gracious smile she could find. “Monsieur—”

  “Amon.” Though gentle, the correction was much firmer than she was accustomed to hearing from servants. “No monsieur about it. Just Amon.” The French word rolled from his lips with practiced ease. How odd.

  “Amon. How much farther must we travel?”

  “Won’t be long now. House is just up the road a piece.”

  Her gaze followed his nod. How could anyone judge distance in such a place? Texas was nothing at all like New Orleans. Although the land here lay as flat as at home, Texas remained wild and unpopulated. Even on the docks where she disembarked hours ago, no laughing patois chatter brightened her ears, nor did young women of color in vivid tignons compete for attention with azaleas and bougainvillea. No aroma of magnolia and honeysuckle, of strong coffee and fresh beignets, greeted her arrival.

  The afternoon sun, brighter here somehow, chased the last of the morning’s rain from the landscape. The scent of wet earth rose with the steam, intertwining with damp wood and a vague fishiness from the nearby bayou. Strange cattle with wicked, curling horns as long as their bodies dotted miles and miles of green, overgrown in patches with thorny brush and vines. Here and there, brief flashes of yellow peeked from tall, waving grass.

  What did Texans eat and drink and admire in this odd, monochromatic country? What did they do for entertainment? With no other humans around to practice the art of conversation, did they forget how to speak?

  Jo flicked open the blades of sandalwood dangling from her wrist and fanned herself and Napoleon in an unsuccessful attempt to dissipate the suffocating heat. “Have you worked for Monsieur Collier long?”

  Rubbing knuckles along the line of a strong jaw, Amon stared over the bay horse’s ears. “All my life.”

  His voice, quiet yet strong, soothed some of her unease. The man spoke at least a little French. Perhaps a modicum of civilization existed in the wilderness. “Tell me about him, s'il vous plaît.”

  “Not much to tell.” The gaze he swung from one horizon to the other caressed each tree, each blade of grass in its path. “Edson Collier owns everything we’ve driven through. All you can see, smell, taste, or touch. Every living thing on this property wears a Collier brand.”

  “And the man I am to marry?”

  “Bennett?” Amon shook his head on a wry huff. “Bennett Collier is educated to within an inch of his life. Smart, wealthy, ambitious. He’ll run this state in a few years.”

  A man of such stature would take pride in protecting his wife, his children. Maman and Céline would have approved.

  Maman and Céline. Of all the things Jo would miss about New Orleans, she would miss her mother and sister the most—and the tidy cottage in The Marigny.

  But not the man inside. Lucien Bouchard. The Devil with an angel’s face…and enough money and influence to buy anything and anyone he wanted. She pressed fingertips to her lips to settle a familiar surge of bile.

  “Mademoiselle? Are you ill?”

  Jo glanced up. From beneath the brim of a slouch hat that ill matched his suit, Amon’s steady gaze bathed her with concern. “Not at all. I’m just a bit unsettled from the trip, I suppose. When my bridegroom did not meet the boat as I expected—”

  “Bennett’s responsibilities sometimes get in the way.” Amon re-centered his gaze between the horse’s ears, releasing a long, tense breath as though wresting control from some unseen adversary. “Said he’d return as soon as possible. Two days, maybe three.”

  Napoleon’s tiny paws dug through six layers of petticoats and into Jo’s legs when the buggy turned onto a long, tree-lined lane. Oaks. In vain, she searched their canopies for beards of moss.

  The tiny dog stretched and yawned, shook himself, and then shoved his nose under her hand, begging for attention. She picked him up and cradled him against her cheek.

  When he licked her nose, she could not suppress a girlish giggle. “I love you, too, mon petit,” she whispered.

  “There she is.” The reverence in Amon’s tone accompanied a nod to the end of the lane. “Dumont.”

  Jo peered around Napoleon. A silent gasp darted into her lungs and refused to leave.

  Dumont. Whitewashed from the bottom of the sweeping veranda to the gables beneath a broad roof supported by six—no, eight—ionic columns, the three-story palace presented the most conspicuous display of wealth she’d ever seen. Her bridegroom, a man she knew only from the contents of a single, vague letter and Madame Espallier’s recommendation, enjoyed privilege beyond anything she had expected.

  A bittersweet smile tipped her lips. Madame Espallier had indeed arranged an auspicious match. Maman and Céline would have been impressed…but they would never know.

  And for everyone’s sake, she must ensure Monsieur Bennett Collier never came to know about Maman and Céline, either.

  Chapter Two

  Amon handed off the horse and buggy to a stable hand before slipping inside the foreman’s cabin. The sooner he got shed of this blasted suit, the better. Ben might enjoy wearing the accursed things, but as for himself, weddings and funerals presented the only justification for enduring such torture.

  He stripped off the broadcloth and linen, slid into denim britches, and drew a butternut woolen shirt over his head. He buttoned the placket as he crossed the manicured yard and ducked inside the kitchen door at the big house. Jenny must have set the staff cooking something special to celebrate Mademoiselle LaPierre’s arrival. Enticing aromas followed him all the way to the front of the mansion. His stomach rumbled.

  As he suspected, the main parlor sat empty. Amon grumbled under his breath and headed for the study. The man he sought pored over correspondence behind a massive desk carved from a single cypress knee. A cigar smoldered in a silver salver on the desktop, and a half-filled jigger of whiskey sat at Edson Collier’s left hand. Like everything else the old man didn’t want to admit, he chose to ignore his doctor’s orders. Thin as a willow whip and getting thinner by the day, he wouldn’t see the end of summer if he kept this up.

  Amon smoothed the irritation from his voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

  The lord of the manor also ignored direct questions he didn’t care to acknowledge. He spoke without looking up from his task. “How is our guest? I trust she was not exhausted by the journey.”

  “Jenny took charge of her right away. I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Amon helped himself to a cut-crystal glass and a liberal splash of the old man’s Kentucky bourbon. “She’s curious about her bridegroom, though. Any word from Ben?”

  “I’m afraid not.” At last, the snowy head rose. Brilliant blue eyes—the only part of Edson Collier with any vitality left in them—pinned Amon with an uncompromising stare. “If he doesn’t return on his own by week’s end, we’ll fetch him. He can’t pay this to go away or pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘she’? He can’t pay her to go away or pretend she doesn’t exist.”

  “Of course that’s what I meant.” The shrewd eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed lenses. “You seem out of sorts, Amon. What’s on your mind, son?”

  “You may have gone too far this time, Pa. You can’t just throw a wife at a man and expect him to like it—especially a man like Ben.”

  “Your brother has sown enough wild oats—with at least a bit of discretion, thank God. A wife will be good for his image. Make him appear settled, responsible.”

  “Mademoiselle LaPierre will serve admirably in that regard. She’s lovely and quite the lady.” And much too genteel for Ben. If the heir apparent found even one chink in his unwelcome bride’s New Orleans belle armor, he’d pry at the flaw until the whole suit disintegrated. Amon lifted the glass to his lips and spoke around the rim. “She reminds me a bit of Suzette.”

  “Excellent. Bennett’s mother, God grant her peace, was a good woman. A
good wife. Had she not been the lady she was—”

  Raising a hand to cut off the words, Amon tossed the entire splash of whiskey down his throat in one gulp. “Let’s not go through that again. Serves no purpose.” He sucked a deep breath to temper a hot throb in his soul. The scar from that brand would never heal. “It’s not like Ben’s hiding. I can fetch him any day. But it might be best to let him come to grips with this in his own time instead of forcing him to take the bit.”

  Edson slammed his palm on the desk with more force than Amon thought lived in his father’s deteriorating body. “That boy will come to heel, or I swear to God I’ll disinherit him and leave everything to you.”

  “That gun’s empty—and all three of us know it.”

  The old man grumbled. “There is too little justice in this world.”

  Amon refilled his father’s crystal jigger and set the glass in a hand gnarled by age and infirmity. “Give him time, Pa. He’ll come around. It’s not easy being Bennett Collier.”

  His father peered at him over the wire rims of his spectacles. The rebuke in the look pushed a chuckle from within Amon’s ribcage. “Ben’s always going to be Ben. But he’s also going to put a Collier in the statehouse one of these days. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “I want both of my sons to have good lives, make good choices.” The old man removed the spectacles and rubbed his eyes on a sigh. “I wish there were better ones available to you, Amon. You don’t deserve to be condemned by one of mine.”

  One thirty-year-old decision—and a good one, at that—would haunt his father to the grave. Amon reached across the desk and curled his fingers around a knobby fist. “I’ve never resented your choice, Pa. Ben may, but I don’t.”