Bride by Arrangement

by Karen Kirst

  On top of the chaos the brothers had wreaked, Noah had inherited a whole host of other sticky issues from his predecessor—the mystery of the falsified store deeds being one of them. Opal herself had discovered the forgery. Without an authentic deed, the bank wouldn’t extend loans for new purchases.

  “I’m going to review Sheriff Davis’s notes on the matter, then I’m going to interview everyone involved again. See if I can dredge up new information.”

  She didn’t appear impressed. “Would you be willing to meet with the shop owners to discuss your plans to rectify this situation?”

  “Of course.” He adopted a confidence he didn’t feel. “Give me three days to complete the interviews. We’ll meet at the Cattleman on Friday.”

  Opal was quiet a long moment. Then, with a jerky nod, she struggled to her feet, waving off his extended hand. “I’ll pass the word along. I pray you’ll have more success than Sheriff Davis did.”

  Noah watched her leave. He had some serious praying to do himself.

  He spent the morning examining the contents of Davis’s desk. His notes about the shop deeds were pathetically brief. Noah paid the land office a visit. While the gentleman working there was willing to assist in the investigation and gave Noah access to the office paperwork, he didn’t have any useful information. Frustrated, Noah returned to the jail to find three cranky cowboys demanding water, food and their freedom. He listened to them whine for an hour before their fellow drovers arrived to pay the fine for disrupting the peace. Once they were gone, he made a list of all the shop owners he needed to interview. He stayed busy, yet the widow remained on the edge of his thoughts. He’d prepared enough breakfast for her and her daughters. But what would they do for lunch? Images of his cabin burning to the ground taunted him. No way did he want a mollycoddled socialite tampering with his kitchen.

  Ducking into the Cattleman, he sought out young Simon, Will’s hotel porter. Since Constance had already met Simon, she wouldn’t be alarmed to see him riding onto the property. He arranged for the boy to pick up lunch from the Cowboy Café and take it out to her, assuring the boy the errand wouldn’t get him in trouble with his boss. Will was responsible for Constance’s presence; he could spare his employee for a couple of hours.

  By the time five o’clock came around and another deputy, Timothy Watson, showed up to relieve him, Noah was antsy to return to the ranch. As instructed, Simon had reported back to him, saying that Mrs. Miller had seemed surprised but pleased with the delivery. Simon hadn’t seen Abigail, which meant she must still be confined to bed. He’d let slip something that had Noah worried. He’d said that when he arrived, Constance had been busy cleaning the cabin. The furniture, what little he had, had been pushed against the wall and buckets of soapy water stationed about the living room.

  He didn’t want her cleaning, didn’t want her touching his belongings.

  What would a woman like her know about caring for a home, anyway? From the looks of things, Constance Miller and her girls had lived a life of extreme ease. No doubt she’d paid people to cook and clean for them.

  Saddling up, he pushed Samson faster than usual. Halfway between town and his spread, a small herd of buffalo watched him ride past, shifting nervously at the sight of Wolf loping after him. Wild turkeys scattered when he thundered onto the worn-thin trail leading to his cabin. He slowed when he caught sight of his vegetable garden. The short rows had been weeded in his absence.

  Dismounting, he mumbled a prayer for fortitude and let himself inside. Noah’s abrupt entrance startled the two occupants. The bowl in Constance’s hands tipped precariously. Jane’s initial surprise transformed into a welcoming smile. Bounding over to him, she took hold of his hand as if they were longtime friends.

  “Sheriff, look what I picked for you.”

  Scrambling to make sense of several things at once, he allowed himself to be tugged over to the table, where the girl was chatting and waving her hand at the mason jar filled with a combination of orange, blue and yellow wildflowers.

  “Aren’t they pretty?” she finally asked, big blue eyes blinking up at him.

  “Huh.”

  The floors were still damp from their scrubbing. Not a speck of dust littered the mantel. The windows sparkled, the clean glass admitting more light and allowing a clear view of the cottonwoods and the stream.

  He registered the smell of grease and chicken the same moment he spotted a bucket of feathers in the kitchen corner. Leaving the girl, he prowled over to where Constance stood at the stove, her skin dewy with exertion and tendrils of chocolate-hued hair skimming her cheeks. Chin lifted, she stiffened with apprehension.

  Noah plucked a feather that had gotten caught in the lace of her dress. “What did you do to my chickens?”

  Chapter Five

  The sheriff examined the feather, drawing it through his blunt fingertips, a look of incredulity on his face.

  Grace floundered for a response. Because of his height, his hard, muscled chest filled her vision, as did the strong, tanned column of his throat, the warped flesh on the left side disappearing beneath his shirt collar. His body gave off the scent of honey and something floral, a unique combination.

  Not knowing what to expect, she sent Jane outside to gather more flowers.

  “Don’t you like fried chicken?”

  His gaze traveled from the feather to the platter on the counter, then to her. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch. His assessment made her conscious of her disheveled appearance. She’d donned her most basic skirt, navy with thin white stripes, and a coordinating blouse. She hadn’t even bothered with a hoop skirt. After a full day of scrubbing floors, polishing windows, dusting surfaces and tending to Abigail, she was dirty and sweaty and exhausted to the point of light-headedness.

  “Did you ask Simon to kill the bird for you?”

  “Simon? No. I did it myself.”

  “And where,” he drawled, his Southern inflection deepening, “did a woman like you learn to pluck and gut a chicken?”

  Annoyance boosted her energy. “A woman like me?”

  “A city woman. From the looks of things, you haven’t had to fend for yourself in a very long time.”

  “I haven’t always lived an advantageous life, Mr. Burgess. You’re making assumptions again.”

  “You’re right,” he conceded. “I know very little about you.”

  “And I know only what your friend Mr. Canfield told me about you.”

  “It hardly matters, does it?”

  Jane burst through the door, waving fresh blooms. “Are these enough, Momma? I’m hungry.”

  Noah put distance between them and, taking the bowl of green beans from her hands, placed it on the table. Jane put the flowers into the jar with the others, not a bit intimidated by the brooding sheriff. “There. That’s better.” Lifting the bouquet again, she said, “Smell them.”

  Looking disconcerted, he bent his head and sniffed. “Uh, they smell nice.”

  Jane smiled in satisfaction and touched a fingertip to one of the petals. “I like the yellow ones best. Momma said I could put some in Abigail’s room later.”

  Grunting a noncommittal sound, Noah came back for the chicken. “How’s your other daughter?”

  Grace glanced at the closed bedroom door. “Abigail was sick several times during the night, but her fever has subsided.” As she’d worked throughout the morning and afternoon, she’d talked to God, asking Him to ease her child’s misery. A deep well of gratefulness overflowed inside her. “She’s resting comfortably now.”

  “Good news.”

  Aware that his relief stemmed from an entirely different reason than hers, she helped him carry over the remaining dishes and chose the seat across from him. After a moment of awkwardness, it was decided that Jane would offer grace. When she thanked God for providing her an
d her sister with a new pa and asked that he be nicer than her first one, Grace wanted to sink through the floorboards. Her face aflame, she avoided the sheriff’s perusal by focusing on filling Jane’s plate.

  She expected him to eat in grumpy silence as he had the evening before, so she started at the sound of his roughened voice.

  “Did you make these buttered rolls?” He snatched a second one from the pan and bit into it.

  “Jane and I baked them.”

  “They’re delicious. Better than the ones the café serves.” He pointed to the half-eaten chicken leg on his plate. “Tasty chicken, too. You’re an excellent cook, Mrs. Miller.”

  Jane darted her a furtive look, one that broke Grace’s heart. What kind of example was she setting for her children, urging them to go along with her lie? If Frank had accepted that she wasn’t interested in being with him, they could’ve remained in Chicago. Granted, she would’ve found a different place to reside in. Living with her mother-in-law and a mansion full of bad memories had become too difficult to bear.

  She lowered her fork and reached for her water glass. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I helped prepare the dessert, too,” Jane announced proudly.

  He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Dessert?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her eyes twinkled, and her fat curls danced along her wide dress collar as she bounced in her seat. “Pound cake with berry preserves. We would’ve made an apple pie but couldn’t find any cinnamon.”

  “I hope you don’t mind we used your supplies. I will replace them.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he said gruffly. “I should’ve stuck around this morning and showed you where I keep the foodstuffs.”

  Grace thanked him for sending Simon out with lunch and lapsed into silence. Not one to sit still, Jane fidgeted and hummed as she ate. The behavior had irritated Ambrose’s mother, Helen. Many times after a tortuous family meal, Helen had taken Grace aside to admonish her for allowing it. No amount of scolding or instruction had been successful, however. From birth, Jane had been the more energetic of her girls.

  Now she watched the sheriff from beneath lowered lids to gauge his reaction. He didn’t appear to notice or care. His eyes on his meal, he seemed preoccupied with whatever was going on inside his head. She glanced at the tintype resting on the mantel. Curiosity welled up inside her, taking her by surprise. What terrible experiences had he endured that had so altered him from that young man in the photo?

  In Chicago’s elite circles, she’d been shielded from much of the war’s gruesome reality. It was only through her church’s charitable work that she’d gotten any significant information. The tales she’d heard had shocked her. Reports of inadequate supplies and disease. Debilitating injuries. Soldiers committing horrific acts against innocents. Noah had lived the war day in and day out.

  “That carved plantation house on the mantel. Is that a replica of your childhood home?”

  His brow knitted. Not looking at the object in question, he nodded but didn’t speak.

  “Where is that exactly?”

  His chest heaved with a sigh. “Virginia.”

  “You were a Union soldier though, right? I saw your uniform in the photo. How—”

  “I don’t like to discuss my family or the war.” His features were shuttered in warning.

  More questions arose in Grace’s mind. Noah Burgess was a mystery, one that wouldn’t be easy to solve. Not that he was about to give her a chance.

  “Well, it’s a beautiful piece. The craftsman is extremely talented.”

  “Thank you.”

  She stared at his bent head and then at his large, capable hands, unable to reconcile the intricacy and beauty of the house, the creativity and artistry required to produce it, with the tough, aloof man before her.

  “You made it?”

  His light blue eyes were guarded. “I like to create things in my free time. It’s a skill I learned as an adolescent.”

  “I’d love to see your other pieces, if you have any.”

  His shrug was noncommittal.

  Stunned by how badly she wanted to learn more about her host, she dropped the subject. When they’d finished dessert and Grace told Jane to assist her in cleaning up, he held up a hand. “I’ll take care of it. But first, I’d like a word.”

  His expression warned she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

  Leaving Jane to play with her miniature tea set and dolls, Grace accompanied him to the stream, where he showed her to a bench carved out of a massive tree trunk.

  “Did you make this, too?”

  He buried his hands in his pockets. “I come down here sometimes to read or think, and I needed a place to sit.”

  It was a nice shady spot with a view of the green fields stretching to the distant horizon. “You like to read?”

  “That surprises you.”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Because I’m a soldier or because I’m a Southerner?”

  Grace shrugged, ashamed she’d judged him again. “You simply didn’t strike me as the bookworm type.”

  He scowled. “It’s a good thing we’re not getting hitched. We have a bad habit of judging each other as lacking in one way or another.”

  Unable to sit still beneath his enigmatic gaze, Grace stood and crossed to his spot near the water’s edge. Her plan was on the verge of collapsing.

  “That’s because this is an unusual situation. Given time, we’ll learn each other’s personalities.”

  He grasped her hand and lifted it for his inspection. “You’re not wearing your rings.”

  “Th-they would’ve gotten in the way.”

  Noah examined her reddened palm, his hold surprisingly gentle. She was almost sorry when he released her.

  “You shouldn’t have overexerted yourself. While I appreciate the meal and the effort you put into cleaning my cabin, it doesn’t change a thing. You’re not staying.”

  Desperation shivered through her. “I thought you were an honorable man. Mr. Canfield clearly exaggerated your finer qualities.”

  A tiny vein at his temple throbbed. “My honor isn’t in question here, Mrs. Miller. I never promised to marry you.”

  His body shifted into a warrior’s stance and the anger practically spiraled off him. Okay, so questioning a former soldier’s honor was a dumb thing to do.

  Skewering her with a look, he demanded with narrowed eyes, “Why are you so determined to stay where you’re not wanted?”

  That hurt. More than it should. Grace didn’t know him, and yet, he was another in a long line that didn’t want her around.

  Holding her deception close to her heart, she seized on the most obvious answer. “I came here in search of a better life for my girls.”

  “Cowboy Creek is short on women and long on marriage-minded men. If you’re determined to stay, you’ll have your pick of candidates. It’s not personal. Before the war, I might’ve made a good husband and father, but I’ve changed.” He touched the raised pink flesh on his jaw. “This isn’t the worst of it. It’s what you can’t see that’s truly horrific.”

  Grace thought he meant the physical scars beneath his shirt.

  “I don’t care about your scars.” Normally, she wouldn’t reveal private details of her life, but despair trumped pride. “I was married to a handsome man whose inner character rendered him ugly. I care about integrity. Loyalty. A good work ethic. Mr. Canfield wrote a glowing report of your character, Mr. Burgess. I desire that for my daughters.”

  “You misunderstand. I didn’t mean what’s under here, although my physical deformity would be difficult for any woman to accept.” He rubbed his flattened palm over his shirt. “I meant what’s in here.” He tapped his heart first, then his temple. “The war changed me in ways I can’t
begin to describe. I don’t trust like I used to. I don’t hope. Don’t believe in the basic goodness of human beings. I don’t have the ability to make anyone happy.”

  The bleakness in his features robbed her of speech.

  “Since your daughter is on the mend, I’ll make the necessary arrangements for you to remove to the hotel tomorrow afternoon.”

  He walked away from her again, something he was rather good at.

  * * *

  For the second day in a row, Noah ate his breakfast at the jail. He wasn’t happy about it, either. The early-dawn ride into town had passed in a blur. One of the Murdoch brothers could’ve swooped in and he wouldn’t have known it until the last second. He’d lost his concentration and focus because of the comely young widow.

  Constance Miller. Funny, the name Constance didn’t really suit her.

  Adjusting his gun belt, he smashed his Stetson on his head, ordered Wolf to stay put and left the jail.

  Sticking around this morning would’ve been the polite thing to do. Constance and her daughters were his guests, unwelcome though they may be, and his ma had instilled good manners in him and his sisters. But he’d found himself growing captivated in the brief moments he’d spent with her. She was a woman of contrasts. Beneath that feminine, fragile exterior lay fire-purified strength and the determination of an approaching storm. What she’d managed to accomplish in one day both stunned and impressed him. Noah would never admit it, but hers was the best fried chicken he’d ever tasted, even better than his ma’s. And that moist, dense cake bursting with flavor... His mouth watered thinking about it. He could get used to coming home to fine meals like that.

  But would she ever get used to welcoming a man such as him?