Looking over his shoulder, Nigel patted the other side of his jacket. “That contingency was covered.”
Of course. Fitz stepped inside the den and closed the door. The click of the latch engaging echoed in the quiet room. He retained his hold on the brass knob, frustration keeping his fingers gripped tight. What if he’d finally had enough of living up to his father’s expectations? What if he refused to meet this last demand? In truth, he’d shown his father his chosen profession was a viable one—that building ships wasn’t the only way for a man to make a solid living or gain a respected reputation.
But, Fitz had to be reasonable and consider the way in which he could improve the ranch and the stock with his ten-thousand-dollar inheritance. He’d read about the stud services of a new bull being offered in Temple, and he’d contemplated a spring trip to inspect the animal’s pedigree.
During his years at university, he’d enjoyed flirtations with young ladies but had never become entangled in a serious courtship. Since moving west, he’d only had brief, social conversations with a few women in Dorado and visited red-light houses in Missoula and San Antonio when his body’s urges couldn’t be denied. Based on those extremes, finding a marriage partner might be beyond his scope.
For a moment, he contemplated the women he knew in Dorado. Most were already married to the men who ran businesses in town or managed outlying ranches. The two oldest Treadwell sisters at the boarding house were being courted, as was the niece of the mercantile owners. That left the schoolmarm, Miss Fletcher, a couple of widows too old to be considered, and several young ladies still attending school. For obvious reasons, the two women who worked in the Golden Door Saloon weren’t potential candidates.
Although, the closest scenario to locating a partner he could envision was when he’d selected prime stock and participated in a bidding process. In those instances, he’d written out his requirements and made a fair offer. Logical and rational. But that decision hadn’t involved a person who would acquire his name and reside under his own roof. Or, to be more specific, lie at his side in his own bed, as well as one day being the mother to his offspring.
Seated at the desk, he pulled out a piece of thick stationery and eased the ink pen from the wooden stand. The polished metal utensil felt heavy in his hand, almost as if the letter he was to write could change his future the same way buying his first stud bull had. Although the comparison would hopefully prove unfair to his unknown bride. Squaring his shoulders, he ran his gaze over the publication’s masthead and set a finger under the name of the matchmaking agency. Then, he dipped the pen nib into the bottle of ink and started writing.
Twenty minutes later, half a dozen crumpled paper balls littered the distance between the desk and the fireplace. Capturing the right tone was essential. Some notes were too business-like, and others revealed the loneliness Fitz hadn’t known lay so close to the surface. The statement to the marriage broker should disclose his hopes of finding an amiable woman willing to share his life. After settling the pen into the holder on the stand, Fitz leaned back in his chair and reread the final version.
Dear Missus Turnbull,
I am owner of the Star S Ranch outside of Dorado, Texas, and am in need of a wife. The candidate must: 1) be honest and caring, 2) be between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-seven; 3) enjoy periods of solitude; and 4) have the ability to create a comfortable home.
I will interview your top three candidates at ten o’clock on the forthcoming Monday morning. Please advise the women I expect the chosen candidate to relocate to the Star S Ranch within one week of that date.
Additional details and provision of a stagecoach ticket will be made to the most suitable candidate on the appointment day.
Respectfully,
Mister Fitzadam Saunders
Chapter Two
Tavia Naughton paced the floor of the waiting area of the Fort Sam Houston commander’s office. Her boot heels snapped a measured tap-tap as she walked the width of the plank floor. A uniformed private who didn’t look old enough to shave on a regular basis instructed her to wait while he checked to see if the commander had returned from morning drills. And his departure had occurred almost twenty-five minutes earlier. Fighting back irritation, she took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her anxious stomach.
After years of living in army forts or on their outskirts, she should be used to how the world revolved around army time. At least, her own life had since being orphaned at age seven. Meandering down a long hallway, she glanced with little interest at portraits of various battle scenes of the War Between the States, previous officers of the fort, and, of course, President Rutherford B. Hayes, with his graying droopy mustache and full beard.
On some other day, the history of what she saw might have been intriguing. But today, she needed to focus on the practical details of handling the items from the late General Mackay’s widow. So far, arranging for the belongings of deceased employers had not been part of her duties. Sadly, Clarice and Arthur had been childless so now the duty fell to her—the widow’s paid companion for the past four years.
Tavia had enjoyed the quiet life spent in the small San Antonio house with the elderly Clarice—arranging her social calls, accompanying the widow on visits on behalf of the local hospital, and maintaining the small two-bedroom house only blocks from the fort. The simple life near a military fort was one she’d always envisioned for herself as the wife of an Army officer. She glanced at the brooch watch pinned to her dress front and bit back a sigh. Only twenty minutes remained until her appointment with Missus Turnbull of the Bexar Bride News matrimonial agency. An appointment that could prove the means for what came next in her life. The time had arrived for Tavia to find a husband to provide her with a secure future, instead of her perennial scramble to find suitable employment that kept a roof over her own head.
Uncertain if a hired carriage could drive her downtown in time, she hurried to the front of the office, having no other choice but to leave a message. Arriving late to this important appointment would never do. Movement through the front window caught her eye, and she stepped close.
A tall man, well-dressed in a sheepskin coat over dark trousers and wearing a curved-brim hat, stood at the edge of the street. His gloved hands grasped the reins to a beautiful, tri-colored pinto horse. She tightened her grip on the strings of her reticule and leaned toward the window, narrowing her gaze at the sight before her. He and the fort’s commander talked and laughed as if they had not a care in the world! So, what looked like a private conversation was the reason she’d been kept waiting. The nerve.
About ten feet away, the private hovered, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he glanced between the office building and the two men.
Looks like my message was never delivered. Tavia spun and covered the distance to the desk in quick strides. Spotting a stack of blank stationery, she slipped a piece from the top, dabbed the pen into the inkwell, and jotted a quick note relating the items she wanted to donate to the fort’s library. From the back of a nearby wooden chair, she grabbed her woolen coat and shoved her arms into the sleeves. As she dashed out the door of the one-story stone building in the Quadrangle, she saw the tall man ride away, noting how well he moved with the horse’s gait. General Thompson was nowhere in sight. Just as well, she might have been tempted to linger long enough to vent her frustration.
The private ran forward, the tops of his ears reddened from the cold. “Uh, miss, I’m sorry but—”
“I’m late for another appointment. On your desk is a note. Please see the commander receives it.” Pulling on her gloves, she walked toward the street corner, aware of the pounding of hammers and the sounds of men busy with the construction of the fort’s expansion. Only a couple of rods in the distance stood the impressive stone watch tower manned by two guards. At its base, a group of pea hens and a peacock nibbled at the grass.
A horse and cab came into view, and she stepped up to the curb, forcing herself not to lift her hand to
flag it down. Although in her urgency to be on time, that resistance almost tested her will power. Clarice always admonished that “a lady did not hail a cab. Her expectant posture should be message enough.”
Arriving at her destination twenty-five minutes later, Tavia dropped a few coins into the driver’s hand. “Thank you.” Sparing a quick glance at the business names painted on the front window, she noted the desired office was on the second floor, entered the lobby of the Bank of The Republic building, and hurried across the polished tile floor. She gathered her skirts and dashed up the steps, not caring how her hasty footsteps echoed on the stone staircase. A grandfather clock in the lobby chimed out the quarter hour. I’m late but that circumstance couldn’t be helped. As a rule, being orderly and punctual had always allowed her to maintain a low profile. Today’s situation had been outside of her immediate control.
Outside the door marked Bexar Bride News, she paused with gloved hands pressed to quell her knotted stomach. After a quick pat of her chignon to make sure she was presentable, she turned the doorknob and walked into a small office.
The room held a serviceable desk, a wooden file cabinet, a coat rack with garments, and two wooden chairs stood along the wall to her right. A circular rug on the plank floor and a grouping of framed photographs of smiling couples on the walls gave the space a homey atmosphere.
“Miss Naughton, I presume?” A curvy, dark-haired woman stood in an open doorway a few feet away. In her hand, she held a sheaf of papers.
Tavia dipped a short curtsey before stepping forward. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. Hiring a cab took longer than anticipated.”
“Well, you’re here now. I’m Missus Turnbull, and I’m glad to meet you.” After giving a wide smile, the woman wearing a pale yellow blouse and brown skirt nodded. “Hang your coat on the rack by the entry.” She swept an arm toward the nearby doorway. “Then go right through here.”
Doing as the woman instructed, Tavia unbuttoned her woolen coat and hung it and her scarf on an empty curved hook. The woman’s pleasant smile was the first kindness Tavia had encountered since the funeral. The knot in her stomach released just a bit. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m in the midst of settling my late employer’s estate. This morning, I had hoped to make arrangements for quite an extensive collection of military publications.” She drew off her gloves as she crossed the threshold into the meeting room, half-turning to continue her tale. “But I was left to wait while the—”
“What type of military books?”
Tavia gasped and whirled toward the deep male voice. Rising to a stand not five feet away was the same tall man from the fort. Dark-haired with a penetrating stare, he exuded confidence and command. But he was also the man who’d delayed her arrival. She couldn’t stop herself from extending a stiffened finger. “You!” She jerked her head toward Missus Turnbull, and then back at the dark-haired man, before narrowing her gaze. “You, sir, are the very reason for my tardiness.”
He quirked a dark eyebrow and ran his gaze the length of her body. “I don’t understand how, miss. I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced.”
Keeping her expression impassive, Tavia chastised herself for not holding her tongue. Instead, she pressed her lips tight. Making an accusation did not provide the proper start to this meeting. She spared the room a quick glance and noted a long table surrounded by six wooden chairs. A world globe sat on a stand at the far end of the room. Sunlight entered through two sets of mullioned windows, although gauze curtains filtered the intensity of the glare.
Missus Turnbull scurried behind the narrow table and laid down the papers she’d been holding. “Well, we can handle the introductions now. Miss Tavia Naughton, let me present Mister Fitzadam Saunders, the rancher who contacted me.” She gestured toward the man standing at the far end of the table. “Mister Saunders, this young woman is the last of the candidates, Miss Tavia Naughton who has been employed as a ladies’ companion.”
He’d met with other potential matches? Legs shaking, Tavia pulled out the closest chair and sank onto the wooden seat. I must make an outstanding impression. Better than the one I’ve already created by my tardiness and rude accusation. Drawing on the lessons drilled into her by numerous army officers’ wives, she took a deep breath, tilted her head downward, and plastered on a smile. “Mister Saunders, I thank you kindly for waiting. Please don’t assume I am always tardy. I was detained at the fort while waiting to speak with the commander.” There, I kept my tone civil.
“Just now?” He pressed his lips together as he sat again, resting both forearms on the table. “That’s why the private dogged our steps during my visit.”
Is that a mischievous sparkle in his eyes? Why had she even noticed that detail? Under the table, she clenched the strings of her reticule tighter but fought to maintain a calm expression. “I have no knowledge of why the general was detained, sir. All I know is I waited in the office as long as I dared before hiring a cab to deliver me downtown.”
Nodding, Mister Saunders rolled a broad hand in front of his body. “Tell me more about this collection of military works. Did you intend to donate the volumes to the fort?”
After watching his movement, Tavia glanced at the now-seated older woman, uncertain of how a bride-matching session should be conducted. “I wouldn’t want to monopolize your interview, Missus Turnbull. I’m sure you have a list of questions to ask us both.” At least, she hoped the bridal agency woman would be leading the conversation. Tavia had much she wanted to know about the man who caused such an unexpected response. She swallowed hard and turned to the stranger who held himself with such confidence, like he presided over an important meeting from the head of the shiny oak table. “Or possibly you have queries concerning me, Mister Saunders?” Although she had yet to determine how one went about interviewing a potential mate.
“Go ahead, dear. The purpose of this meeting is to allow the two of you to become acquainted.” Missus Turnbull leaned back and placed her hands over her rounded stomach. “Any topics of mutual interest may be discussed.”
Giving a nod, Tavia shifted and angled her body toward the gentleman, whose stare focused on her from the end of the table. A blue-eyed gaze that seemed as sharp as a sword’s edge never left her face. “The general, my employer’s late husband, was an avid student of battlefield plans and collected biographies of military commanders. The volumes occupied two full shelves in Clarice’s, um, Missus Mackay’s bookcase.” Her pulse beat faster under his scrutiny.
A dark eyebrow winged upward. “Do you recall any of the specific titles?”
Blinking, she shook her head. Of course, the list. She sucked in a breath. Why are my thoughts so scattered? Ducking her head, she loosened the strings of her reticule and pulled out a sheet of stationery on which the titles and authors or editors were written. “I prepared a listing to share with the commander.” Standing, she moved behind two empty chairs and extended the folded paper.
“Let’s see this list.” Mister Saunders rose and accepted the paper.
Relief washed through her that his gaze now focused elsewhere, and she moved to return to her chair. She hadn’t been subjected to such intense stares in many years, and her breath quickened.
“Please, Miss Naughton.”
Tavia glanced over her shoulder, liking the slow way he spoke her name. “Yes, sir?
As he seated himself, he jerked a chin toward the chair to his left. “Sit here…in case I’m unable to read your handwriting.”
Unsure of the propriety of such close proximity, Tavia looked toward the older woman and arched an eyebrow.
“You two just pretend I’m not here.” She chuckled and waved at the chair, her eyes gleaming. “Although, of course, I shall be.”
“All right.” Tavia complied and settled her reticule atop her skirt. This close, she could see how Mister Saunders’ hair curled over the top of his ear and reached almost to his shirt collar. She had an almost-irresistible urge to feel its texture. The sunlight through th
e window glinted on a few reddish highlights. The hands holding the list were sturdy, tanned, and marked by a few scars. She’d already seen how well he sat a horse, which was to be expected from a rancher.
“And your plan was to offer all these to Will?”
“Will? Do you mean General Thompson?” At his nod, she leaned a hand on the table. “Those books were treasured by people who were kind, especially to me, and I want to see them put to good use. I love to read, and books are meant to be enjoyed by as many people as possible. Not to mention the fact, I cannot move on with my life until all of the MacKays’ belongings are properly disposed.”
“I see we are both lovers of literature, Miss Naughton. I have an extensive military collection in the library at my ranch, but I am lacking most of these volumes.” He set down the paper and turned toward her, dark brows lifted. “Are they for sale?”
“Sale? Oh, I’d thought to donate them. But…” She had trouble holding his gaze which bored into hers, as if he gauged her character. Her stomach rolled like a tumbleweed in a stiff wind. Glancing down at her fingers entwined in the reticule strings, she pressed her lips together. Usually, she could put her thoughts together in a more cohesive fashion. But this intense man unsettled her. “An auction house agreed to handle the sale of the furnishings but would only sell the books as a lot. On more than one occasion, I remember the general stating several of the volumes are quite rare.”
Mail-Order Haven Page 2
