Lassoing A Mail-Order Bride Read online

  The old man cleared his throat. “You’ll be at supper.”

  The command cocked Amon’s head on a confused frown. “What the hell for?”

  “Cursing is a sign of poor breeding.” His father’s piercing gaze betrayed not the slightest acknowledgement of the irony in the statement. “And you’ll join us because I asked.”

  ****

  Jo ignored the first tap on her shin. She also ignored the second. The third was more swat than tap.

  She glanced down. Napoleon sat up on his haunches, one forepaw braced on her leg and the other waving to attract her attention.

  In as unobtrusive a manner as possible, she slid a bite of meat from her plate and slipped the morsel to His Highness, along with a pointed look intended to remind him of his manners. Napoleon snatched the treat and scooted under the table.

  “Have you found Texas to your liking so far, Miss LaPierre?” Despite his pale cheeks and gaunt frame, Edson Collier’s rich baritone filled the cozy family dining salon. With brilliant blue eyes and a rough edge to his polish, the elderly gentleman must have been a charmer in his youth.

  Jo returned his warm smile. “Oui, what I’ve seen. Very much. Dumont is lovely.”

  Monsieur Collier fixed a fond gaze on the other end of the table. “For that, I must thank Jenny. She has exquisite taste.”

  A slight bob of the regal Creole woman’s head acknowledged the compliment. “Merci.”

  Had she been Jenny, Jo feared she would have resented the Texan-ization of her much more lyrical given name, Geneviève. The manager of the Dumont household accepted the nickname with the grace she seemed to accord everything else. Her refined features belied her middle years, and her sophisticated elegance would have been welcome among the loftiest circles of New Orleans society…if not for one detail. Instead of the delicate rose-cream complexion expected of a highborn Creole lady, Jenny’s skin bore the radiant duskiness of café au lait.

  Jo liked her from the moment of their introduction. Jenny’s warmth and hospitality infused all of Dumont with a joie de vivre Jo had not expected to find so far from home.

  “Edson…” Jenny tucked a tendril of silky hair into her elaborate coiffure. “Do you think the ranch could spare a couple of men tomorrow? Josephine and I would like to begin redecorating the suite she and Bennett will occupy.”

  “I don’t see why not. We’ll ask Amon.” Snowy brows inched together above brilliant blue eyes. “Where is that boy?”

  “Right here.” Boot steps whisked across the thick carpet and stopped opposite Jo. Amon’s gaze swept both her and Jenny before meeting Monsieur Collier’s. “Sorry I’m late.” Running a finger between his collar and his neck, he tucked into the chair across the table.

  Jo hid her surprise behind a sip of chardonnay. Were all Texans so eccentric? In New Orleans, the household manager might dine with the family, but none would dare call the master of the manor by his given name. Outdoors servants seldom entered the house at all and never joined the family for supper. Yet this man, skin baked to a deep tan by long days in the sun, took a seat without the barest hint of invitation.

  “Miss LaPierre, I believe you’ve met my second son.”

  The Collier patriarch’s rolling rumble collided with the wine halfway down Jo’s throat. With a small cough, she set down the crystal goblet. “I believe I have.” Inclining her head, she pulled on a shallow smile. “Monsieur Collier, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

  Full lips curved to match a wicked glint in blue eyes. “Just Amon. And the pleasure is mine.” A servant removed the charger in front of him and slid a filled plate into its place. Dark brows rose toward the inky lock draping his forehead at a rakish angle. “Quail. That’s what smelled so good.”

  He refocused his attention on his right leg. His hand followed. “I see the ferocious beast is adapting.”

  “Napoleon!” A burn swept Jo’s cheeks. “Come here, you naughty boy.”

  “He’s just saying hello.” Amon cut half the breast from the fowl on his plate. Gripping the chunk of meat between two fingertips and his thumb, he ferried the treat below the line of the tabletop, then jerked back his hand. Candlelight sparkled among the silent mirth in the gaze that snapped to Jo’s. “Poor little critter’s starving.”

  Though his amusement was contagious, she did her best to reprimand the rogue. “You will spoil him.”

  Amon chuckled. “Looks to me like somebody already has.”

  At the head of the table, Monsieur Collier cleared his throat. “If I may interrupt.”

  The scowl on Monsieur Collier’s face faded as Jenny claimed the entirety of his attention with a throaty laugh. “Have no fear, mon cher. The new emperor is much too tiny to claim Dumont’s throne.”

  A warm flutter spiraled upward until it encountered the lacing on Jo’s corset. The way the two gazed at one another, as though important pieces of each resided within the other… They’re in love. Was such a thing accepted in Texas?

  Chewing his lip, Amon lounged against the high back of his chair. His head swiveled as he contemplated first his father, and then Jenny. By the time he faced his father again, his expression bore an elegiac quality that, for reasons Jo couldn’t define, chipped at her heart. “Pa? You wanted to interrupt?”

  Like a boy caught sneaking a treat he wasn’t supposed to have, Monsieur Collier shot guilty glances around the room before clearing his throat again. “Yes, I did.” He adjusted his cravat. “The Constitutional Unionists intend to meet in Galveston at the end of the month. I should like you to attend in my stead.”

  A frown settled behind Amon’s rakish lock. “I thought you agreed to stay out of politics, at least for the time being.”

  “I agreed not to engage Bennett in any more shouting matches. Your brother is free to embrace whatever foolishness he wishes, but the Collier name must stand behind Sam Houston.” The old gentleman rubbed his breastbone through the pleats on the front of his shirt.

  Amon’s frown deepened. “You all right?”

  “Perfectly fine.” A deep breath produced a wheezing cough.

  Amon started up from his chair.

  Monsieur Collier waved his son back into his seat. “We cannot allow the Democrats to overrun the state, or we shall be at war before the new year.”

  “If it comes at all, war’s a long way off.”

  “I’ll not take risks with the future of this land.” Monsieur Collier leaned forward, planting a gnarled fist on the linen tablecloth. “Already hotheads in Austin are calling for Texas to join a confederacy of southern states. Texas must not leave the U—”

  Monsieur Collier’s face contorted around a sharp hiss. Clasping a palm to his chest, he collapsed against the back of his chair.

  Amon was at his father’s elbow before Jo had time to blink. A rustle of silk passed her back, and Jenny appeared at the stricken patriarch’s other side. “Mademoiselle, a glass of water, s'il vous plaît. Hurry.” The urgency beneath the Creole’s cultured tone sent Jo scurrying for the sideboard.

  Slender hands shook as Jenny removed the stopper from a small, brown vial and measured its contents into the water Jo delivered. Between them, Amon and the household manager coaxed, cajoled, and threatened until Monsieur Collier drank every drop.

  Gasping for breath, the old man sprawled limp in the chair. “I guess…I’m not as…hale…as I could hope.” Surely, the reed-thin voice belonged to another man.

  Amon raised his father’s frail form in his arms. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  ****

  He will recover. He will recover. Jo lost track of the number of times the silent words circled her head as she paced the empty dining salon. Napoleon played peekaboo with the hem of her sweeping crinoline. The estate would be in mourning for months, the wedding would be delayed…

  What a selfish creature you are. Papa’s memory was no more than a shadow, yet an ache lingered all these years after his death. How much rawer would her betrothed’s pain be if he returned to find his fa
ther had died while he was away? Security gained at the cost of Bennett Collier’s happiness would doom any hope she had of claiming her bridegroom’s heart.

  And claiming his heart was essential to ensure she’d never be set aside like Maman nor mistreated like Céline.

  Jo drew a calming breath and held the air until her whirling thoughts slowed. Minutes stretched into an hour, and still neither Jenny nor Amon returned with word of Monsieur Collier’s condition.

  The aristocratic serenity enveloping the woman in a portrait above the fireplace drew Jo across the room. The blush of youth infused the subject’s flawless skin, but her beatific smile nevertheless hinted at wisdom—and a certain sadness—beyond her years.

  “That’s Suzette. She was from New Orleans, too.” The deep, quiet voice swung Jo to face the doorway. Amon filled the opening, broad shoulders nearly spanning the frame. Napoleon bounded across the carpet, his tail beating the air like an over-wound metronome. “She sat for that while she was carrying Bennett.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was, and very special.” Amon ripped the button-on collar from his shirt. Releasing a gust of relief through pursed lips, he tossed the stiff linen band on the dining table. “She never recovered after Ben’s birth. Died eighteen years ago January.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He dismissed her concern with a twist of his lips and a shake of his head. “Suzette’s death hit us all pretty hard, but it was almost a relief. Fifteen years is a long time to linger.” Napoleon’s energetic bouncing against Amon’s shin drew a wan smile across the Collier scion’s lips. He picked up the tiny dog. “Jenny asked me to make her apologies. She’s going to stay with Pa in case he needs anything. Will you—and the emperor here—join me for dessert?”

  “No, thank you.” Jo collected her companion from Amon’s gentle hold. “The meal was excellent. I’m afraid I have nowhere to put dessert.”

  “A glass of sherry, then. I could use a good stiff belt right about now.” A lost boy lurked behind his halfhearted smile. “And I hate to drink alone.”

  How could she refuse such a request? “Very well.” Napoleon wiggled. She shifted him to the crook of her other arm. “How is your father?”

  Points of light danced across the crystal decanter’s facets when Amon pulled the stopper. “Dying. Doc says his heart’s giving out.” In mid-pour, he stopped long enough to release a sardonic huff. “Stubborn old cuss. Never has been one to give up until he gets what he wants. Not even for the Grim Reaper.”

  “What is it he wants?”

  “A grandchild—an heir.” A sly grin peeked around the corner of his expression as he set a tulip glass containing amber liquid in her free hand. “He’s looking to you and Ben for that.”

  “Oh.” Embarrassment sent Jo’s gaze scrambling for the floor…just in time to save her sherry from Napoleon’s tongue. The little dog grumbled.

  Amon chuckled. “I suppose it was rather rude of me to exclude le petit caporal.” He chucked Napoleon under the chin. “Shall I pour another, mon ami?”

  Napoleon yipped. Jo jostled him. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Why did français rolling from this man’s tongue send tingles skidding down her arms? “But perhaps you would be kind enough to explain something to me.”

  He sketched a shallow bow. “Anything, mademoiselle.”

  “Why did you present yourself as something you are not?”

  “Excusez-moi?”

  “You are not a common servant. Why did you not tell me you are the brother—”

  “Half-brother. And I’m just another hired hand around here. Ranch foreman, nothing more.”

  “I do not understand. You are Monsieur Collier’s son, are you not?”

  “I am.” Holding her gaze, he raised his short glass of whiskey to his lips. “But I was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  Bonté divine! Every time she opened her mouth, she made a fool of herself. A sip of sherry burned the mortification from her throat. “Please, forgive me. I did not mean to pry.”

  “You didn’t.” He tossed back what remained of his whiskey and delivered the most unsettling wink. “There are all sorts of skeletons in Collier closets, ma chère—and no shortage of stray bones.” He nodded to Napoleon. “Keep a close eye on the little emperor. No telling what he’s liable to dig up.”

  ****

  For the second time in fewer than twelve hours, Amon peeled off the wretched broadcloth and linen. This time, he let everything lie crumpled where it fell, padded across the bare-plank floor, and flopped onto his back in his bunk. A full moon shone through the window, bright enough to sear his brain through closed eyelids. He tossed a forearm over his face to block the light.

  Three deep, slow breaths—in, out, repeat—settled the churning in his gut but did nothing to remove the images burned into the front of his memory. Eyes the greenish-gray of the Gulf of Mexico before a storm. Hair like spun molasses. Skin as silky as fresh cream. Tantalizing berry-stained lips. He’d bet what little he owned Josephine LaPierre tasted every bit as sweet as she looked, too.

  Ill-considered though Pa’s matchmaking methods may have been, the old man was right about one thing: A beautiful woman bred and reared among New Orleans gentility was exactly the kind of bride Ben needed. A pillar of velvet, accustomed to negotiating all the traps of society life. Surely, a woman like that understood she would be little more than a trophy, a pretty trinket a powerful man could trot out in all the appropriate places…at least while she wasn’t shortening her life by serving as a brood mare.

  Amon dragged his arm from his face and stared a hole through the ceiling. Did Mademoiselle LaPierre possess Suzette’s fortitude? Could she allow Ben the freedom to sate his desires with other women while propping up his destiny, wherever Fate led? Would she welcome Ben’s bastard son as though he were her own?

  Honeysuckle. Her hair smelled of honeysuckle. If he closed his eyes…

  That way lay madness. Even were Josephine LaPierre not his brother’s int— No, “intended” didn’t seem the right word.

  Opening closets in Dumont was a risky proposition. Collier skeletons had a habit of playing fast and loose with Collier women.

  Hypnotized by those gray-green eyes, fresh-cream cheeks, and berry-stained lips, he’d come too damn close to unlocking the one door that had to stay closed.

  Chapter Three

  Amon scooped up the beribboned hat, vaulted back into his saddle, and kicked the sorrel gelding into a headlong gallop. Two dozen yards ahead, Mademoiselle LaPierre’s glistening locks, undone by the breeze, streamed behind her, a red flag baiting a bull. Her lilting laughter smacked him full in the face.

  He grinned. Damn her hide. She did that on purpose.

  By the time he caught up, her chestnut mare had jumped the creek and found shade under the broad leaves of a cottonwood. The woman sat a sidesaddle like she was born to it: back straight, head up, and a that’ll-teach-you gleam in her eyes. The wind had burnished her cheeks, and all that dark hair flowed around her shoulders like a fountain of spun sugar.

  Why had he balked when Jenny asked him to accompany the young lady on a ride?

  Because socializing with a woman like Josephine LaPierre was not a good idea—not for a man like him. Wanted or not, she belonged to his brother. Even if she didn’t, he shouldn’t be anywhere near her. Damn those Collier skeletons.

  He ground-tied the sorrel, handed the lady her hat, and reached up to lift her down. “You cheat.”

  Her eyes widened in mock outrage. “Excusez-moi?” Her gloved palms burned his shoulders through his shirt.

  When he set her on her feet, her knees buckled. Without a second thought, he pulled her close to prop her up. She gasped, and a jolt lit his pulse.

  As gently as he could, he set her at arm’s length, then wrangled enough air to speak. “Been a while, huh?”

  Her voice emerged thin, too. “Since I have ridden? Oui. Too long.”

  “Got your
balance now?”

  “I believe so. Merci.” A quick smile, and then she lowered her gaze. Her stare fixed on the Walker Colt at his hip.

  “You’ve been eyeing my gun all afternoon. Does it bother you?”

  Long, dark lashes fluttered through a couple of blinks before she raised her head. “I am unaccustomed to civilized men wearing firearms…at least, where one can see them.”

  A grin tugged at his lips. Were all New Orleans belles so unspoiled? “Civilized? That’s asking an awful lot of a Texan.” He presented his arm. “Let’s walk. Might help your stiff muscles.”

  She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and again a burn scorched through his shirt. “Do you always carry a pistol?”

  “Out here? Yes, I do.” With the toe of his boot, he pointed to a spot in the sand beside the water. “See that?”

  She peered at the set of four-toed tracks and then nodded.

  “Bobcat. Snakes and gators out here, too. Had some trouble with a cougar a while back.”

  A rustle in the tall grass tightened gloved fingers on his arm. The chirruped bob-white, bob-white that followed plastered soft, feminine curves to his side while a wide, gray-green gaze lanced to his.

  Only his inability to draw a complete breath smothered the laugh that begged for freedom. “Quail. They’re not dangerous.” He reached for a wink. “Are tasty, though.”

  “Oh.” Pressing a palm to her bosom, she released a gust of relief and relaxed. “Do wild animals come near the house? Napoleon is so small—”

  “That’s why we keep the hounds happy. They and the barn cats chase critters away most of the time. Keep le petit caporal close to you. He’ll be fine.” Amon pulled on a mock frown. “Unless one of the cats gets him. He is awfully little.”

  Her laugh wound through his chest and squeezed. “That is what Jenny said. ‘Keep him away from the cats. They will think he is something to eat.’”

  “I’d listen to Jenny. She’s kept us all out of trouble for thirty years.” He grinned. “And that’s not easy with Colliers.”