His Make-Believe Bride

by Martha Hix

Attorney!

  Around him stepped the bantam rooster lawman, handcuffs clanking from his gun belt. “Good day, Mrs. Kincaid. I reckon you remember me. Wes Alington, sheriff of Lubbock County. Would you please come with us?”

  * * *

  “Oh. You’re home,” Sam said as he entered the soddy. “I didn’t see the buckboard, so I—”

  With dread, Linnea watched as the man she loved stopped short upon seeing her half-filled valise on the bed.

  In the half hour since Linnea had returned from Lubbock, she’d begun to prepare for the inevitable. There wasn’t a chance on God’s green earth that Sammy would be able to forgive what she’d done.

  “Linnea?” he asked. “Where do you think you’re going? I know there’s something wrong. Tell me what’s wrong!”

  “That’s what I’m ready to do.” Linnea somehow managed to hold her head high. She swallowed hard before continuing. “First of all, you’ll find out soon enough that Sheriff Alington escorted me to the jail this afternoon.”

  “Jail!”

  “Yes.” Seeing the horrified look on his face was enough to remind her that her news would surely be enough to rip his heart out of his chest. How could she have done this to Sammy? To them?

  If only she’d listened to Jewel. Her friend, she now realized.

  “It was because Edgar Philpott came to see me yesterday afternoon, and—”

  “Who the hell is Edgar Philpott?” Sam boomed, his eyes flashing.

  As briefly as possible, Linnea explained the dastardly man’s presence on the stagecoach. “He’s a reporter. He was privy to the newspaper article about us growing cotton here. He came to . . . well, he wanted my earrings and made it clear that unless I—”

  “Oh, darlin’,” Sam said, his tone plaintive as his gaze moved to her bare ears, then back to her face. “Your treasured earbobs! Linnea? What did that man—?”

  “Sammy! Please stop interrupting me. Please!” Her eyes begged, as well as her words. “It’s all I can do to keep myself focused enough to admit what I have to tell you. What I should have told you the day I got off that stagecoach!”

  Without another word, he crossed his arms and waited, his expression every bit as solemn as her own.

  “Mr. Philpott . . . knew something about me. Something I’m terribly ashamed of.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  Unable to stand still a moment longer, Linnea began to pace. “He threatened to expose me—to ruin you, as well—if I didn’t agree to meet him at the café today. If I didn’t hand over my cameos.” She stopped abruptly. “I went to town to meet him. But he would not get the earrings. No. I was ready to tell him that I didn’t have them anymore, and I don’t. Mr. Jimmerson from Murray Gin picked up the earrings this morning. I was going to tell Edgar Philpott this, flat-out. But Wes Alington showed up instead. With your cousin. My attorney.”

  “What the devil does the sheriff—or Cousin Grant—have to do with—” He cut off and simply stared at her. “Go on. I’m still listening.”

  “I don’t care about myself, Sammy. I don’t! It’s you I hoped to spare. As it turned out, Jewel went to see Wes Alington this morning—I’d run over to the dugout and told her about Edgar Philpott’s threats right after he left here—and she went to the sheriff to let him know the man was trying to, well, to extort me.”

  “She’s a wonderful woman, that Jewel Craig.”

  “That she is. I never realized until lately that I have an aunt and a friend who is like a mother, with the voice of reason. If only I’d listened to her from the start . . .”

  Linnea turned away from her husband. She knew full well that in a matter of minutes, when she told him the worst part of her admission, she wouldn’t be able to bear seeing the look on his face. “Don’t worry, though. Jewel didn’t say anything to the sheriff about why I was being blackmailed. He wanted me to press charges, but I came to a compromise with him so that no gossip about all this would get out. He ended up running Edgar Philpott out of town, same as he did your ranch hands. So your reputation is still intact, Sam, and I’m so grateful for that. So very, very grateful.”

  “Linnea,” he asked gently, taking the few steps necessary to stand directly behind her. “What in hell do you have to be ashamed of?” Turning her to him, he folded her into his arms and held her firmly against his hard chest.

  “I . . . I’ve kept something terrible from you. All this time, Sammy. I don’t even want to tell you now, I feel so much shame and guilt.”

  “Darlin’? If this is about you and Ermentrude Flanders, about that deal you made with her to—”

  She yanked herself out of his embrace. “You . . . you knew? How . . . ? What . . . ? When . . . ? You’ve known for how long that I am not Ermentrude Flanders? That I am really Linnea Powell?”

  “Long enough,” he said, shaking his head and smiling into her gaze as tears began to well in her eyes. “I was angry at first, but then I realized you must have had your reasons. Just as I had my reasons for not telling you the hundred-percent truth about me. After I wrestled with that for a while and got things straight in my own mind, I decided you deserved a chance to explain things to me. I knew you’d tell me in your own time.”

  “How did you find out, Sammy?” She squeezed her eyes closed and pressed her face against the warmth of his chest. “How did you know?”

  “Jewel told Charlie in confidence, the night all of us got hitched. Charlie told me a few days after that.” She felt the warm caress of his breath against her hair as he laughed softly. “I’m just shocked he kept it to himself that long. Trying to keep my uncle from telling a secret is about as easy as nailin’ ice cream to a racehorse.”

  He squeezed her tighter . . . leaning her one way, then the other, and then got himself a nice nip off the side of her neck. “Aww, Linnea, now stop those tears. I’ve got something that’s going to make you feel all better.”

  She grinned. “Oh, you do, do you?” Blushing, she couldn’t keep her mind’s eye from drifting back to him pressing her against the wall—mere feet from where they stood in each other’s arms this very minute.

  “There is that,” he said with a rakish grin, apparently able to read the rush of color in her cheeks. “For now, I wonder what else would make my sweetheart burst into a big, huge smile?”

  “We’re moving to greener pastures?”

  “No. Not that. Not never.” He fished into his jeans pocket and pulled a folded piece of velvet from it. “This one has that beat by a country mile.”

  She said nothing, but she did set to work unfolding the velvet. “Oh, Sam! You’ve got to be joking. What is this?”

  “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s a brooch.”

  “Where did you get the money . . . ? Sam, you didn’t get into your cotton-gin savings, did you?”

  He ignored her question. “This here—it’s none of that cameo stuff. I didn’t wanna get you one that is exactly like Aunt Jewel’s. It’s a golden bow that’s set with diamonds, a bigger one in the middle. The jeweler in Lubbock—Ross Hall is his name—swears you won’t put people’s eyes out in the reflection, if you paint that big diamond black.”

  “Why in the world would I want to do that?”

  “Damned if I know. That’s just what Ross said.” Sam winked at his wife. “You want me to help you put it on?”

  He set to pinning the brooch to his wife’s dress. “Damn, I did good! Just look at that.” He moved it back and forth, as if he was enjoying the way it sparkled in the light from the window. “This pin is pretty, but it needs a little dressing up on your ears. Where are those cameo and diamond thingamabobs?”

  “Oh,” she stated flatly. “They’re gone, Sammy. I—”

  He seemed to wilt, just a bit, and searched her eyes. “Linnea, please tell me that blackmailer didn’t manage to get his hands on them, after all.”

  “No, my sweet man. No! I had already made a deal to trade them in. For something far more important than a greedy reporter needing an easy way to get a
bauble for his fiancée. I didn’t have the earrings yesterday. I gave them up for you.”

  Seeing the puzzled look on his wonderful face, Linnea couldn’t even allow herself to dwell on his glorious pronouncement of love. Instead she tugged on his hand, beaming with happiness as she coaxed him toward the door. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  She had parked the buckboard in a low place behind the smokehouse. Before they reached the shade of the dugout, she made him close his eyes. She led him forward.

  “Go ahead. You can open your eyes now.”

  There was no way he could miss the sight of his brand-new, shiny cotton gin.

  For perhaps the first time since she’d known him, her husband was speechless. After a few moments, though, he began to laugh and rub his jaw. “Oh, Linnea. Instead of saving money for a cotton gin, I got you a brooch to match your pretty earbobs . . . while you got it in your head to sell them for what I wanted.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder, and she joined in—laughing about the irony of what they’d each forfeited for the other. Obviously, neither one had a moment’s regret.

  “Oh,” she added when they’d regained their composure, “and I have something even better for you, Mr. Kincaid!”

  “What, woman? You’re about to kill me with kindness as it is. What else could you possibly have that could top this fine cotton gin I’ve been dreaming about?”

  “This,” she said as she sprinted to the buckboard and reached under the seat.

  “Gingham?” he asked, thoroughly perplexed again. “Well, that’s nice, Mrs. Kincaid, but . . .”

  “Maybe I should explain,” she answered. “I’m getting ready to ask Jewel to teach me to sew. Because, Mr. Kincaid, before too long I’m afraid I will have outgrown most all of my clothing.”

  His eyes rounded; he looked deadly serious all of a sudden. “Oh, no.”

  “What?” she asked, rushing to him. “What is it, Sammy? I thought you’d be happy to hear that we’re . . .”

  “Oh, darlin’, I am happy. You make me the happiest man in this world. It’s just that, under the circumstances . . .” He reached out, smiling broadly as he rubbed her belly. “I believe we’ll need to have another wedding ceremony, since the first one might not have been legal and all.”

  His hand left her stomach and moved to cup her cheek. “So if Brother Inman is available in a few days, which I figure I can arrange . . .” He dropped down on one knee. “Miz Linnea Powell, will you do me the honor of marrying me this Saturday?”

  “For heaven’s sake,” she said, teasing as she tried to pull her hand from his. “You needn’t worry about wasting five bucks, my gallant Texan. Everything is wild and woolly here. Sheriff Alington told me all about it, and your lawyer cousin confirmed it. They both said we don’t need a preacher or even a license to be legally married in the Lone Star State. You just have to call me your wife for at least six months. It’s common law.”

  “I don’t care about that. I’m not taking any chances. I’ll pay the man—even if it costs me ten dollars this time.”

  She laughed as he wrapped his arms around her waist. She smiled into his beautiful, loving, pure blue eyes. “My darling Sammy, how you do amaze me. Something tells me our life together is going to be full of even more amazing surprises than the ones we’ve given each other today.”

  “You reckon, Mrs. Kincaid?”

  “I do.”

  “Then hang on tight to my saddle horn, sugar pie. We’ve got the ride of our lives to look forward to.” He made a grand gesture. “Yee-haw, woman of mine! Cotton is gonna bring us everything you’ve always wanted, right here in the Lone Star State!”

  “Wrong! You and a family. That’s what I want. Right there in that left-leaning soddy of ours.”

  If you enjoyed Martha Hix’s His Make-Believe Bride, be sure not to miss the next romance in the Texan Brides series

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  Martha Hix is an internationally and multi-published, award-winning author. Living in the breathtakingly fabulous Texas Hill Country, she is blessed with a husband, two daughters and one son-in-law, their children, many friends and relatives, and has a house filled with books and spoiled four-legged kids. She enjoys volunteering for good causes and is an election judge and precinct chair for her county. She loves to hang out with her WINOS and Slacker girlfriends, and with her writing muse, Barbara Catlin. Visit her on the web at marthahix.com.

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