by Carol Arens
William stood. The expression on Lydle’s face was an outright sneer.
“Had a bad experience with a dog that size once. That one was white. Had a bow in its fur, just like your mutt. It was responsible for the ruin of my saloon.”
The story of the ruin of Pete’s Palace was no secret if one looked into it, and he had. The man had tried to cheat a dead woman, and to enslave a lady piano player. She resisted him and it caused a riot among the patrons who doted upon her.
The woman and the dog escaped with a bounty hunter while the customers left the Palace in splinters.
“I bid you good night, Mr. Lydle.”
Pete did not rise to bid him farewell but instead huffed out a smoke ring then snuffed out the cigarette in his whiskey glass.
“I expect we will meet again, Mayor. I believe your office is not far from here. I look forward to a pleasant and profitable relationship with the folks of Tanners Ridge.”
“I’d like to hope so—but I’m familiar with your former establishment, Lydle. Folks won’t welcome it.”
“Won’t they?” Lydle tipped back in his chair, propped his boots on the table. “No matter. If they don’t come, others will. They will come from far and wide to drink and lose money at my gaming tables and to spend time with my girls.”
“Tanners Ridge is not that sort of town.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t. Who is there to stop me in whatever I do? Unless I’ve been misinformed, you have no sheriff.”
A sad fact that he could not dispute. He took his dog, snagged up the lantern and left the Bascomb.
The walk home was more distressing than the walk into town. All of a sudden an old woman peeking in a window didn’t seem so troublesome.
Chapter Nine
Winded from her run, Agatha braced her hands on her knees while she caught her breath.
It was hot, already uncomfortable and it was only nine in the morning.
For the first time since she’d begun her morning run, the horses hadn’t come. Gazing down at the valley, she missed them. Watching their sleek muscles strain and stretch, and counting newborns had become a beautiful way to begin her day.
Far in the distance, she saw a cloud of dust rising from the road. No, there were two dust clouds, one about a hundred yards ahead of the other.
As the groups came closer to the ridge she began to hear sounds—see figures more clearly.
The first group was made up of men on horses, brightly dressed women in a buckboard, and three other wagons loaded with supplies.
There was not much doubt about who the first group of travelers were. William had told her how he’d run into Pete Lydle when he was walking Miss Valentine last night.
Over breakfast, he’d revealed all he knew about the man and his ambitions. Even warned her to keep the dog inside or in the yard.
With her breathing now normal, she straightened up, stepped closer to the edge of the bluff to get a look.
She had never seen anything like these people. The women with their low cut, vibrant-colored clothing and hair, the men laughing and cursing and—she squinted her eyes to look more closely—drinking. At this early hour between the cuss words, she saw bottles being tipped.
As if to annoy the party behind them, they hooted, hollered and galloped their horses in circles, raising a great cloud of choking dust.
The second group of travelers appeared to be more refined. Women wearing proper bonnets rode in fringe-bedecked buggies. Gentlemen on well-groomed horses rode sedately beside them, perhaps cursing at the dust, but not drinking.
This group also had buckboards trailing them. But instead of supplies for the saloon, they were heaped with traveling trunks.
A woman on horseback split from the group in the rear and charged her horse toward the group in front.
It was hard to see her face until her bonnet blew off but her shout was easy to hear, given that the commotion was taking place only fifty feet below.
“You uncouth heathens!” She shook her fist at the heathens. “You miserable louts!”
The painted ladies in the buckboard stared at her openmouthed. The men swept their hats from their head in mock respect.
One of them lifted his bottle in salute. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.” Clearly, given the sneer in his voice he did not beg anyone’s pardon.
Agatha’s heart crept halfway up her throat because—if she was not mistaken, the outraged woman was Victoria Mary English—her mother-in-law!
* * *
“She’s here!” Rushing into the house, Agatha clutched Mrs. Bea’s arm as she placed a flower in a vase on the table beside the door. “Mrs. English! In a few minutes she’ll be knocking at our door!”
“How lovely.” Mrs. Bea patted her cheek. “The rooms have been ready for hours. I’ll just run and tell Mrs. Fitz to put on the coffee and warm the muffins. Don’t look so worried, Mrs. English, all is ready.”
“I’m not ready!”
Far from it! Her hair drooped about her shoulders, a limp, tangled mass. She’d lost her bonnet on the dash home. Sweat dampened her blouse and the hem of her skirt was dusty.
“Why, of course you are. Just smile and welcome her.” Mrs. Bea wiped something off the tip of Agatha’s nose with the pad of her thumb.
“I look a mess!” She turned for the stairs, dashed up.
“No one wants her daughter-in-law to look like a china doll.”
“They might!”
All at once Mrs. Bea erupted into a coughing fit.
“I’ve never met Victoria English directly.” Agatha called over her shoulder. “Maybe she’s always wanted a china doll for her son!”
“Perhaps,” came another voice from the bottom of the stairs. “She has never had any use for china dolls.”
Agatha turned on the top stair, looked down. It felt like her bones and muscles had dissolved, her face turned to flame. Apparently her voice had also fled because she stared mutely at the woman looking her over from top to toe.
“Welcome, Mrs. English,” Mrs. Bea said with a smile and nod of her head. “Miss Fitz will serve refreshments in the parlor. How many shall she expect to entertain?”
“Only five for the parlor, thank you. But I imagine the help would appreciate a bite in the kitchen if Miss Fitz won’t mind.”
“Mind?” Mrs. Bea clapped her hands one time under her chin. “She is beside herself to have folks to do for.”
With that Mrs. Bea spun about and left her—alone.
“Come down, my dear. Give your new mother a hug.”
Somehow she made it down without stumbling, or weeping, because quite without warning, tears stung the backs of her eyes.
Until this moment she had not considered the fact that William’s mother would be her mother as well.
She’d had two already. One had abandoned her and the other enslaved her.
But the woman at the bottom of the stairs had called her “my dear” and was smiling with her arms wide open.
“I scarcely recognize you, Agatha.”
She would not. Mrs. English would only have seen her from a distance or a secluded corner when she attended parties her father held at the Lucky Clover.
Mother Brunne had made sure of that.
The nurse disliked her infatuation with William and would have prevented a meeting with his mother or anyone whom she might have formed a bond with.
“I’m sorry, I’m hardly presentable, Mrs. English.” She did not step into the hug.
“And look at me! All covered in dust and...” She slapped at her skirt, squinted down at it. “What is that? A burr? No. I believe its manure.”
William’s mother straightened and laughed. “At least we meet as equally soiled! I’d have felt horrid had you spent the morning getting gussied
up while I blew in like a tumbleweed.”
All of a sudden Agatha found herself wrapped in a tight, swift hug. “From now on you will call me Mother and I will call you Agatha, or my dear, or perhaps my dear sweet girl.”
“Mother always longed for a daughter,” William said striding into the foyer from the parlor and giving his mother a kiss on the cheek.
“You surprise me at every turn, son,” she said then stepped into his hug.
“Oh!” Suddenly incensed, Mother shoved away from him. “I ran afoul of the most horrid ruffians on the way into town. One of their horses flicked dung onto my skirt!”
But, as Agatha had seen firsthand, she’d faced them down with courage. None of the men in her party had done so.
Her mother-in-law was a person to be respected, to be emulated.
“Yes, well—I’ve been expecting them,” William answered with a grunt.
“I suggest you notify the sheriff.”
He grunted again—or was that quiet cussing?
His mother did not reprimand him so perhaps it was a grunt after all.
With a hand under each of their elbows, William escorted them into the parlor where the scent of coffee and warm muffins beckoned.
“How many folks have you brought with you this time?”
“Only eleven. Five very close friends and six to help with the extra work.”
Mrs. English had five very close friends? The knowledge made her stomach uneasy.
Agatha would be expected to smile, laugh and be witty.
Sadly, the muffins did not smell as good as they had a moment before.
* * *
William stood beside Agatha while his mother made introductions. While his bride did smile and nod her head in greeting, she also leaned quite close to him.
A part of him wanted to carry her upstairs, set her in a chair with a book and a snack. That was where she would feel safe.
Of course, he could not do that. She’d made it clear that she did not want to be shut away and protected.
Also, for the sake of his career, he needed her to be socially accomplished.
So, instead of standing between Agatha and the curious glances Dove and Lark Norman were casting at her, he twined his fingers with hers. She held them tight, but she was not trembling as he feared she might be.
“Agatha,” Mother placed her hand at Agatha’s waist, flanking her on the other side.
His mother was nothing if not perceptive about people, what was in their hearts and minds...what lay behind polite smiles.
“These are my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Norman.” She indicated the older couple sitting together on the divan with a wave of her hand.
The couple nodded and expressed their thanks for her hospitality.
“And standing behind the chair are their daughters, Dove and Lark.”
“Charmed,” chirruped Lark.
“Delighted,” agreed Dove with a smile.
William did believe they were charmed and delighted, but baffled, too, as their expressions showed.
At thirty and thirty-one years old, the misses Norman had failed to find husbands. No doubt on the ride here the reasons that he had married Agatha so quickly had been discussed incessantly.
“And the gentleman in the chair is Mr. Bert Warble. Mr. Warble is new to Cheyenne and I thought he might like to meet you, William. He’s interested in civic-minded things just like you are.”
It crossed his mind that his mother might be matchmaking again. She enjoyed putting people together, seeing them find happy endings.
He ought to know. He’d had numerous potential brides set in his path.
Glancing sideways at the bride he had won all on his own, knowing how nervous she was, but seeing how she smiled, commented on the loveliness of Dove’s plain travel gown and the pretty colors of the limp feather on Lark’s hat, and understanding the courage it took for Agatha to look at ease—he was glad his mother had not succeeded with the other women.
In most ways, he was quite content to have been forced to marry Agatha.
But there were times, deep in the night when he wanted to go to her. Times when his skin tightened in temptation, when his mind could not put away an image of her in her bed, blankets kicked on the floor and red hair tumbling over bare shoulders, sheer gown riding high over smooth, fair thighs—those times he wanted go to her room, scoop her up and carry her to the marriage bed.
“William?” his mother’s voice intruded. “Are you feeling well? You look flushed—Miss Lark just inquired if you enjoy being Mayor of Tanners Ridge.”
In case his mother’s observation of his high color was not startling enough, Agatha had turned her wide green gaze upon him, her expression inquisitive.
If he were going to tell the truth he would say that, no, he was not all right and might never be. He was becoming exceptionally fond of a woman he could never have even though the woman was his wife.
“I do enjoy it.” Much of the time. “The people here are fine, reasonable folks.” Usually.
“Not the ones coming into town ahead of us. I certainly hope they do not mean to settle here.” His mother flicked at a spot on her skirt.
“They were quite the brutes.” Lark wrung her hands at her waist.
“Yes, quite. I’d have gone after them myself, taught them some manners had my stomach not been ailing me.” Bert Warble frowned at his muffin, popped it into his mouth.
Apparently the ailment had passed.
Letting go of Agatha’s fingers, he slipped his arm about her shoulder, drew her closer and kissed the top of her head.
The scent of roses wafted from her hair. It might not be wise to let the provocative fragrance seep so deeply into his senses, but he did it anyway.
For this one moment he allowed his growing feelings for Agatha take root in his heart. He could weed them out again later, but for now—she was his wife. He was her husband.
Her very proud husband, in fact.
There was every reason to believe that she was unnerved to have the attention of strangers settled upon her, but even so, she was far braver than Mr. Warble.
He suspected that inside of his retiring wife, there was a woman of courage trying to fight her way out.
His mother had set a few outgoing socialites in his path over the years, but the one she had not placed there, the most retiring one, shone the brightest in his heart.
He could not be more pleased to call Agatha Marigold English his wife.
* * *
“Come, my sweet girl. Let’s walk in your lovely garden and discuss your wedding reception.”
Victoria English set her teacup on its saucer with a decided clink.
Tea had been served late today because the visitors had been weary from their travel and napped until the day was nearly gone, so when Agatha and her mother-in-law stepped off the terrace and onto the back lawn, the sun had already begun to dip below the horizon.
And a good thing, too. The day had been a blister. Dim light and cooling temperatures made the garden an ideal place to discuss something pleasant. Too bad for Agatha, it made her anxious.
Hopefully, by the date of the party, two weeks from now, she would feel differently. Day by day she gained strength and with that came confidence.
“You have a lovely home.” Victoria was a tall woman, almost regal-looking. But not in an unapproachable way. Not in a stuffy way, either. Manure on her skirt did not over trouble her, nor did rowdy people on the road. Agatha had seen that for herself. “And the garden! I adore how lush and peaceful it is.”
While they walked, shadows faded from gray to deep blue. Crickets chirruped and night birds called to one another.
It was a lovely, peaceful place. How odd that William had asked her not to walk here alone.
Perhaps he worried that the cat from the other night had gone rabid and was about to pounce.
Strangely, at that very moment the shrubbery rustled and a cat did leap out.
She had wondered if he was being truthful about the cat peering in the window, but now, seeing the creature sit and lick its paws on the middle of the lawn, she could only believe he had been.
Glancing back at the window, she saw him still staring at the hedge.
“I believe we ought to have the party take place in the garden as well as the house.” Glancing toward the window, she smiled at her son. “Lanterns all over the yard would be enchanting, don’t you think?”
Agatha did think so. In her mind she could see it clearly. It would look like a magical land, lifted from the pages of a book.
“We’ll have a dance floor. It might be crowded for everyone who is coming, but I believe there is enough room.”
Victoria strode to the west end of the yard. With hands on hips she turned about nodding.
Agatha followed her.
“How many people have you invited, Mother?” It felt strange to call her that, but moment by moment, it began to feel right.
Odd that she could feel a bond with someone she had just met that morning. Perhaps she was vulnerable due to the great gaping hole in her soul left by her mother and Hilda Brunne. Maybe she should not let her affections develop so quickly.
Still, the woman was William’s mother and a very engaging person.
“Oh, just a small group of friends and people who will be important to William’s future.” Victoria snatched at a moth flying past her face and missed it. “Some of these creatures are so lovely! As for guests, we can expect about a hundred people in all.”
It was hard to imagine where all those people were going to stay, given that the hotel was turning into a saloon.
William strode onto the terrace.
“Son! I need you to hire someone to build us a dance floor right here in the open. It will be ever so romantic.”
