Frontier Matchmaker Bride (Frontier Bachelors)

by Regina Scott

  “Just because I can match other people doesn’t mean I can pick my own husband reliably,” she said, voice prim. “That’s why people need a matchmaker, you know. They lack the vision to see the right person for them.”

  “Funny,” Scout said, leaning back. “I thought it was lack of skills in society or lack of confidence.”

  “Those can be overcome,” Beth assured him, raising her gaze with certainty. “But I’m beginning to believe none of us can reliably choose a mate on our own.”

  “The human race is doomed,” he teased.

  “No,” she replied with a grin. “I’ll save it.”

  He laughed. “We’re a pair, I guess. I doubt any woman would want me given my family history. You doubt the man you want will return your affections.”

  “I don’t doubt,” Beth told him. “I asked him. He doesn’t.”

  She wasn’t sure why she told him. He could very well take the tale back to Levi and the rest of her brothers. But there was something about Scout, something sweet, something approachable.

  And it was very nice to have someone commiserate with her.

  His reaction was everything she might have hoped for. He drew himself up, color rushing back into his lean cheeks. “Then Deputy McCormick is nothing but a low-down skunk, and you’re better off without him.”

  “That’s what I keep telling her,” Hart said as he stopped by their table.

  * * *

  He watched as Beth washed white. She’d been so intent on her conversation with Scout Rankin she probably hadn’t heard the shop bell. Georgie Howard had told him Beth had come to visit. The boy often joined Hart at the paddock to help him rub down Arno. But Beth hadn’t approached Hart, and he found himself eager to speak to her. After all, he needed to know how she intended to follow through on her threat to find him a wife. Then he’d spotted her through the window and had decided to ask.

  Besides, he still wasn’t any too sure about Scout. He’d known the fellow since Scout was seventeen. He’d seemed the sneaky, weak-natured son of a crooked, cruel father. Ben Rankin’s homemade liquor and high-stakes card games had been the ruin of many a man in Seattle. His son might be living in a fancy house instead of the shack along Lake Union where his father had raised him. He might be wearing better clothes than the torn trousers and rough wool shirt that had been his habitual outfit, but until Hart knew this apple had fallen farther from the tree, he couldn’t feel comfortable with Scout spending time with Beth.

  Scout flushed now, but he rose to his feet and met Hart’s gaze unflinchingly. “Deputy. I’m glad to hear we’re in agreement.”

  “Stranger things have happened.” He turned to Beth, who seemed to have recovered by the way her chin came up. “What brings you to Seattle, Miss Wallin?”

  Scout bristled. “Seems to me this is a free country. Beth can go wherever she likes.”

  “Deputy McCormick isn’t questioning my rights, Scout,” she said, keeping her dark blue gaze on Hart. “He’s concerned what I may be doing. You must know I’ve deposited my things with the Howards, Deputy. I will stay in Seattle as long as it takes to accomplish my goal.”

  At least she hadn’t mentioned that goal aloud. It was bad enough the Literary Society had been discussing his matrimonial prospects. He didn’t need Scout Rankin laughing behind his back.

  “Your family will miss you,” he told her.

  Her look softened. “And I will miss them. All the more reason to settle things quickly. I believe you have this afternoon off?”

  How did she know? He took care to vary the days and times so no criminal would guess when the law might be absent. Had Mrs. Wyckoff learned his schedule from her husband?

  “I do,” he acknowledged.

  She nodded. “Good. You have an appointment at Ganzel’s at two.”

  The barber? He certainly hadn’t made that appointment. “Do I, now?”

  “You do.” The twinkle in her eyes was unmistakable. “And I believe Messieurs Black and Powell are expecting you at three.”

  The tailors as well. She had been busy.

  “And if I had other plans for the afternoon?”

  The twinkle became a gleam. “Cancel them.” She rose suddenly, and Scout stepped to her side as if protecting her, his gaze defiant as he looked toward Hart.

  “I must be going,” she said. “Scout, it was lovely to see you. Let’s keep in touch while I’m in town. I haven’t given up on our plans.” In her usual impetuous manner, she gave him a hug.

  Hart was more interested in her words. Plans? What plans did she have with the fellow? Was Rankin looking for a bride, too?

  Releasing Scout, Beth nodded to Hart. “Deputy. Don’t disappoint me.” She swept from the shop to the chime of the bell.

  Scout sighed like a moonstruck schoolboy.

  “Someone should marry her,” Hart spat out.

  Scout started, then peered more closely at him. “I have it on good authority the only man she ever wanted turned her down.”

  Had she confessed? He had been under the impression she’d told no one. After all, none of her brothers had come calling demanding an explanation. If Beth trusted Scout so much that she’d share her secret, perhaps Hart had been mistaken about the man.

  On the other hand, the gang along the waterfront had risen to prominence in the month since Scout had come back. Maybe he hadn’t returned wealthy. Maybe his money was coming from somewhere else. Maybe, like his father, he saw other men as victims rather than friends.

  Hart straddled Beth’s chair. “Sit down, Rankin. I’d like a word with you.”

  The sullen look reminded Hart of Scout as a youth. One of Scout’s jobs had been to come in to Seattle and entice men out to his father’s place to drink and gamble. It struck Hart now that the pattern was a great deal like what the gang was doing.

  Still, Scout obeyed his command and sat, gaze hard on Hart’s face.

  Hart leaned back. “You arrived in town the middle of February, didn’t you?”

  Scout nodded.

  “Any particular reason you wanted to return?”

  Scout’s smile was more sneer. “It’s home.”

  Hart stuck out his lower lip. “Not much of a home to return to. Your pa’s gone. He lost his claim.”

  “Because you drove him out.”

  Now, there was some venom. The color was rising in his cheeks again.

  “Guilty,” Hart said. “But then, so was he, of moonshining, cheating at cards.”

  “Oh, he was guilty, all right.” Scout leaned across the table, gaze drilling into Hart. “But I’m not. I intend to be a fine, upstanding citizen, Deputy. You have no call to hound me.”

  Hart nodded, and Scout rose. Instead of leaving, however, he came around the table, forcing Hart to his feet. Though Scout was a good six inches shorter, the heat radiating off him made Hart take a step back.

  “And you have no need to hound Beth Wallin, either,” Scout said, tenor voice surprisingly hard. “She’s been through enough on account of you. If I hear you’ve hurt her further, you’ll have to deal with me. And I promise you, Deputy, I can be even less forgiving than my father.”

  Chapter Six

  Hart shook his head as he left the Pastry Emporium. Who’d have thought Scout Rankin had such courage? He seemed to have developed backbone on the gold fields. Of course, it shouldn’t surprise him that Scout was determined to protect Beth. Scout had grown up with her and her brothers. And she was the kind of woman to inspire acts of valor. Every man in Seattle would likely be willing to do her a service.

  Even, it seemed, the barber.

  “Deputy McCormick,” he said, welcoming Hart with a warm smile. “What a pleasure.”

  A neat fellow with a gap-toothed grin and meaty hands, David Ganzel had been shaving faces and cutting hair for Seattle’s bachelors for fifteen years. Hart generally trimmed his own hair and shaved himself. He’d never been partial to another man holding a razor to his neck.

  Still, he made himself climb in
to the leather-bound chair. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Ganzel bustled about, whipping up the lather in a porcelain cup, stropping his razor. “I appreciate you leaving a note about when you intended to come,” he said, eyeing Hart in the mirror. “Most fellows just wander in. Sometimes there’s quite a wait.”

  So that’s how Beth was making the appointments. He’d wondered how she could do so without someone questioning her association with him.

  The barber came around and draped a cloth over Hart’s chin. The warm moisture sank in. Despite his misgivings, his shoulders relaxed. This wasn’t so bad.

  “Lots of new people in town,” the barber said, pulling the cloth away. Hart willed himself not to flinch as the shiny silver razor approached. “Keeping you busy?”

  “Some,” he allowed, fingers gripping the ends of the armrests.

  Ganzel continued to chatter away, not seeming to expect an answer. Indeed, Hart didn’t like the idea of moving his jaw while a razor scraped along it. Still, the man’s hands were swift and sure. After a while, Hart’s mind began to wander.

  Why was Beth so determined that he marry? He had no doubt she held a high opinion of matrimony. Look at how she’d married off her brothers. And he supposed she valued the opinions of the Literary Society. Still, she wasn’t the sort to posture and impress. She could have told the ladies to leave him be. It was as if she wanted him married to someone else besides her.

  The seat seemed to tighten around him, and he shifted. The barber frowned. Hart made himself freeze. Perhaps he’d better think of something else besides Beth Wallin.

  There was always his work to consider. Things had been quiet overall lately, but even with time to spare he’d learned nothing more in his investigation of the gang. He’d followed his hunch and ridden past the seamstress’s shop several times a day, to the point at which she’d taken to waving at him from the window as if they were old friends. But outside a high volume of customers, he’d spotted nothing unusual. And though her brother had encouraged him to visit, he didn’t come out of the shop to greet Hart, staring at him mournfully from inside.

  He’d never found it so difficult to extract information on his quarry. The gang members chose their victims with care—men who, because of embarrassment over being gullible or fear of reprisal, were hesitant to speak to the law. The two victims who had talked to him gave vague answers that led nowhere. All he knew was that two men were involved plus whoever was leading the victims from the docks.

  Bobby Donovan’s face came to mind. He seemed a little old for the trick, but then Scout Rankin had fulfilled the function for his father until he was eighteen. Still, why would a newcomer to Seattle like Bobby, brother of a seemingly prosperous business owner, be involved with such thugs? Was he that lonely for company? Or had someone coerced him?

  Ganzel stepped away to fetch his scissors, and Hart rubbed his smooth chin. He couldn’t deny the barber had done a better job than he ever had. Maybe there was something to be said for getting a shave once in a while. Saturday afternoon was a popular time, he’d noticed. Gents gussied up for dances that night and services on Sunday, trying to gain a lady’s favor.

  He had no call. He’d gotten out of the habit of attending services, and he had no lady to impress.

  The barber moved around him as if studying him from every angle. “Your hair’s already fairly short,” he said. “I’m not sure what I can do with it.”

  Ganzel’s gaze went out the front window as if he was thinking. Then, to Hart’s surprise, he nodded. He started for one side, then stopped, scissors moving left, right in the air as if he remained unsure where to begin. But still he didn’t seem to be looking at Hart’s hair.

  Involuntarily, Hart glanced out the window, just in time to see pink skirts fly out of sight.

  His clean-shaven jaw hardened.

  “Trim it up over my ears and above my collar,” he told the barber, facing front. “And don’t do anything fancy.”

  “Yes, Deputy. Of course.” The scissors clicked as the barber set to work.

  A short time later, Hart paid the fellow and left. Beth was nowhere in sight. He thought about ignoring the appointment she’d made with the tailors, but he supposed it wasn’t fair to keep the men waiting if Beth had sent them a note ahead of time as well. He headed for the next street down.

  The tailor’s establishment bore a distinct resemblance to Mrs. Jamison’s shop. Bolts of fabric, in colors more understated, were neatly stacked on end along one wall. A big mirror stood opposite. The smell hinted more of leather than roses, but the effect was the same. Perhaps that was why Beth looked so much at home.

  She was standing by a set of shelves that held gentlemen’s accessories—gloves, handkerchiefs, suspenders—and was deep in study over a pair of leather gloves that might have been big enough for one of her brothers. Her pink skirts twitched as if she was tapping her foot, and her gray-veiled hat was slipping just a trifle on her curls. She didn’t even turn her head as he entered, but he was certain she knew he was there.

  Mr. Black and his partner hurried forward. The two older men were recent additions to Seattle, having come up from San Francisco like Mrs. Jamison a few months ago. Both were short and slender. Mr. Black’s brown hair receded from a well-shaped face, while Mr. Powell had a generous mane of silver-gray hair and heavy jowls. Both were a credit to their profession with their navy coats and pinstriped trousers. He doubted he’d ever knot a tie so well.

  Of course, it wasn’t often he needed one.

  “Deputy McCormick,” Mr. Powell said, “such an honor. How might we assist you today?”

  Hart glanced toward Beth. “To be frank, I’m not sure.”

  She had a tie in her hand now, raising it as if to hold it against the light. “My brothers all needed a coat, trousers and waistcoat for church,” she told no one in particular.

  “Seems I need a coat, trousers and waistcoat,” Hart told the tailors.

  Black clapped his hands. “Of course! I have just the thing for the coat. A nice, durable brown with wide lapels. Ready-made. Inexpensive.”

  Beth coughed.

  The two men exchanged glances. “Excuse me,” Powell said and hurried to her side.

  “Or perhaps an understated plaid,” Black went on. “I can see a gentleman of your bearing wanting something sturdy, not necessarily fashionable.”

  Beth dropped the tie and glared at him. Powell drew her back for a hushed conversation. Hart might have thought they were discussing something as important as the pay wagon’s route from the docks instead of men’s clothing.

  Black pulled a tape from the pocket of his coat. “I’ll just take your measurements.”

  “Not yet,” Powell said, striding back to join them. “Miss Wallin is of the opinion that we are recommending the wrong designs to Mr. McCormick.”

  Black’s look her way was positively frosty. “Is she indeed?”

  “I wouldn’t argue with her,” Hart advised him. “It never works.”

  The tailor raised a brow.

  As if she took that as a sign of encouragement, Beth swept closer. “If you wouldn’t mind? Wide lapels will only draw undue attention to his shoulders, making him look top-heavy. You want narrow lapels on the coat, to emphasize his height.”

  Black rubbed his chin. “Hmm. You may have a point.”

  “And not brown. It will wash out his coloring. In addition, you want something with a nap, because rough material has a way of making the skin look clearer.” She glanced around, then went to select a bolt of nubby gray wool that reminded Hart of the waters of Puget Sound during a rainstorm. “This,” she proclaimed, pressing it against his shoulder. “See how it makes his eyes sparkle?”

  “The look in my eyes has nothing to do with the color,” Hart informed her.

  She blushed, lowering the fabric. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to interfere. I’m just enthusiastic about fabric.”

  And everything that went with it.

  Powell reg
arded her fondly. “It is refreshing to find a young lady so knowledgeable about gentleman’s fashions.”

  “Well, when you have to help five brothers look presentable, you learn something,” she demurred. She leaned closer. “Black for a waistcoat, I think. Silver shot, perhaps.”

  “Brilliant,” Powell breathed reverently. He nudged Black with his elbow, and his partner went to fetch more fabric.

  Powell strode across the shop for the accessories. “And this for the tie.”

  As he returned with a scarlet bow tie with long ends, Beth threw her arms around him for a hug. “Perfect.”

  The tailor’s jowls were a pleased pink as she released him. Hart had a feeling he’d look just as pleased after one of Beth’s hugs.

  But then, he wasn’t willing to put himself in a position to earn one.

  “Are we done?” he asked.

  “Now, now,” Beth said as the tailor’s smile faded. “Mr. Powell and Mr. Black will need to take your measurements, schedule a fitting or two since they will be tailored just for you.” She must have read the look on Hart’s face accurately this time, for she stepped back. “I should be going. So much to do. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  Powell watched her go. “What a remarkable young lady.”

  “Indeed,” his partner agreed. “She’d make some man an excellent wife.”

  They both looked to Hart.

  “No,” he said. “Not me. Now, if you’re going to measure me, let’s get on with it.”

  The men set to work, positioning him in front of the mirror, muttering to themselves as they determined the size of his neck, the length of his arms. Hart stood still, counting off the minutes. But in the mirror’s reflection, he spotted the flutter of pink skirts past the window and knew he was only prolonging the moment he’d have to have another discussion with Beth.

  * * *

  It took longer than she’d expected for Hart to be measured. Beth paced up and down the block several times before the door opened and he came out. He stopped for a moment, blinking, as if the sunny day was too bright after being indoors so long. That gave her time to reach his side.