The Rancher's Inconvenient Bride

by Carol Arens

  “Might I point out that even though you are my husband and honor-bound to watch over my every little step, that was a high-handed thing to do—even for you.”

  Shaking his head, he touched her jaw, traced the outline of it, then pressed her head to his shoulder, stroked her hair where it had come undone. As if he could soothe away her well-earned resentment!

  “That little step you were about to take? Honey, Hilda Brunne was in that room.”

  Her mind exploded, white lightning splintering her thoughts.

  No! “She’s dead.”

  The denial turned fuzzy in her brain.

  When she next became aware of the world, William was holding her on his lap, rocking her. She found that she had one hand clamped onto his badge, the sensation in her fingers gone numb.

  For once, for this moment at least, she was very glad to have a protector who watched over her every little step.

  * * *

  The fact that Hilda Brunne was alive did not want to penetrate her brain.

  Huddling against William’s side while he led the way home, she knew what he’d told her but the idea would take some time to accept. At some point she expected she might cry and tremble.

  She was shocked and afraid, but the emotion of it refused to lodge in her heart. She must be too unnerved to allow it in.

  How long would it be before she ran home to the Lucky Clover?

  She could not do that of course, not without drawing Brunne back to the ranch—to Ivy.

  With the shock beginning to wear off, her emotions hit hard. Her stomach twisted and she felt nauseous. Pictures of doom rolled over her, one after another, until she had to stop and take a deep breath.

  “I might be sick,” she warned.

  Instead of moving to safety, William patted her back, drew her hair away from her face.

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”

  As he had been the last time Brunne plotted evil. That awful, horrible night when the sky opened up and the land shook with violent lightning. He’d held her close then, just as he was doing now.

  The house was silent, everyone asleep, when she and William climbed the stairs to their bedrooms.

  “Stay with me tonight, Agatha.”

  It was what she wanted, what she had been praying for but—

  “I can’t.” She shook her head, pushed out of the safe circle of his arms.

  Immediately everything grew colder, more frightening.

  “I can’t,” she repeated, not because she thought he didn’t hear but because she had to convince herself that going to her room alone was the right thing to do.

  It had to be. It was not what she wanted, but if she went to William’s bed, hid from reality in his embrace, how would she know what her true reaction to the news that Brunne was alive would be?

  Would she crumble at the fear of being stalked? Or had she grown in strength as she believed she had? The only way to know for sure was to go to her room alone.

  “I want to know that you are all right.”

  “I’ll call out if I need you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re only a door away.”

  And if she knew him at all he would be awake and listening, maybe even with his ear to the wall.

  Closing the door, she sagged against it. A full minute later she heard the quiet click of William’s door shutting.

  Unless she missed her guess, during that minute he had been listening, waiting to see if she fell apart.

  As she well might. The trembling began as a quivering in her belly but soon moved outward, making her hands quake, her knees weak.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  Brunne was not dead as everyone had believed. Not dead—and she knew where Agatha was. She’d no doubt hatched a plan in her deranged brain to enslave her again.

  Brunne would be watching, waiting. But no! She had been watching all along. Remembering the times at the circus when she thought she was imagining shadows, she grew dizzy. And the time she saw the cat in the window—it had not been a cat at all.

  Sick to her stomach, Agatha sank down on the chair beside her bedroom window. The window was open, the wind whistling inside.

  She ought to close it up. What if Brunne got inside and made her drink laudanum? In her mind she saw it happen, felt herself drift away without really caring that she did.

  Reaching for the blanket that had slipped onto the floor, wanting to cover up, hide in it even though it had to be eighty degrees inside, she stopped and kicked it away with her foot.

  Did she really think that an old woman, a crippled old woman now, would be able to climb to the second-story window, burst inside and pour drugs down her throat?

  Even if she did sprout wings, fly inside like a rabid bat, William was in the next room.

  The threat of Brunne assaulting her tonight was imagined.

  Something else was not.

  For as much as she wanted to applaud herself for gaining strength and independence, she would not have managed it without William.

  She was brought to mind of a baby learning to walk. The child did it all on her own, but right behind were a pair of protective arms, not interfering but there just in case.

  This was who William was to her.

  Oh, she’d gone on about how high-handed he was, how bossy and wanting to be in charge of everything.

  Somehow, she found in the moment that she didn’t mind it so much. If it weren’t for him, she would have walked in on Hilda Brunne and been taken by surprise—no, not surprise so much as complete and utter shock. This evening would have turned out much differently had her husband not interfered.

  She did owe him quite a lot. He must think her the most ungrateful wretch.

  If one looked at things in a certain way, she partly owed him the new vigor in her body. Had it not been for her determination to give him children, she would not have gone running every morning.

  Gazing down at the yard, feeling the wind on her face and hearing the crack of a falling branch—peering into a deep shadow and not fearing Mother Brunne would materialize out of it, she knew she was not going to fall apart.

  She was free—nearly. The woman was still here, still had evil intentions. But rather than cower under the blanket on the floor, Agatha would face the woman.

  Hilda Brunne would never drug her again.

  Never again would she be reduced to an oppressed, quivering child.

  She was a woman, able and grown.

  Spinning away from the window, she crossed the room and went into the hall. Raising her hand to knock on William’s door, she drew it back, clenched her fingers.

  Instead, she turned the knob, opened the door. As she’d thought, he stood near the wall, listening.

  “I’m not going to fall apart,” she told him. “You can move away from the wall.”

  He did. He rushed her, grabbed her about the waist and twirled her inside his bedroom.

  Hugging her to him he whispered in her ear. “I love you, Agatha. You don’t think so but I do.” He tangled his fingers in the back of her hair, tipped her head back, gazing hard into her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his mouth and kissed her. “I love you.”

  Then his arms went slack, and he set her away from him.

  He didn’t need to urge her toward the doorway because she was already there, on her way out.

  As much as she wanted to cross the room, leap onto his bed, this was not the time for seduction for either him or her.

  But he had declared his love with passion and she believed him.

  It was enough for tonight.

  * * *

  Victoria English swept through the doorway. Standing on the carpet set out for stormy days, she brushed raindrops off the shoulders of her wrap then removed her
bonnet and shook it out.

  “It doesn’t rain this much in Cheyenne!” she announced. “Twenty-five miles should not make such a difference.”

  “I imagine it’s raining in Cheyenne, too, Mother,” William said, coming out of the parlor and stopping to kiss her cheek on his way to the library.

  “That may be, but my guests are arriving here, not there. How many bedrooms can you spare, dear?” She snagged his sleeve when he would have continued on his way. “I’m having the devil of a time finding places for our guests with all those gamblers arriving at the same time. The folks in town say they would rather rent to me. I believe the problem is that Pete Lydle is blinding them with cash.”

  “We’ll offer more. Don’t worry, the weather wouldn’t dare ruin your plans. The saloon owner wouldn’t, either, if he knew you better.”

  “Well, he’s a greedy fool. I doubt a dressing-down will sway him.”

  “I imagine Ivy and her family will be arriving soon, so all I can spare are two rooms.”

  “I’ll need one more at the least.”

  “I suppose we could put a bed or two in the library. Someone could have the couch.”

  Mother handed him her coat so he hung it on the rack.

  “You could share a room with your wife.”

  “You know why I can’t.”

  “Actually, I do not.” She patted his cheek then walked into the parlor.

  He followed her, his work in the library forgotten.

  Mrs. Bea stood up from the hearth where she had just laid a new bouquet of flowers. The scent of roses washed the room.

  “Good day to you both,” she said with a sunny smile. “I’ll send in tea if you’re ready.”

  “I’ll wait for my daughter-in-law if she’s not too long. I passed her dodging raindrops half an hour ago.”

  He sat down on the couch. His mother joined him.

  “I wonder how she will do,” his mother said.

  “With what?” Childbirth, did she mean? He did not want to have this conversation with her again.

  While Agatha did appear stronger there might be things regarding her health that were not apparent.

  “Playing hostess for your guests. She is a dear girl, but shy. I wonder if she will be happy doing it.”

  “I don’t know. I won’t force her, but I believe she will shine.”

  “You ought to count your lucky stars, son. For a man who was ready to wed for political gain you have been very fortunate.”

  “Aren’t you the one who set a few prospects in my path?”

  “They were lovely women and I’m glad you did not choose them.”

  “So am I. Political gain isn’t what I value most any longer.”

  Ever since he’d carried a frail waif dressed in red underwear into his house he had not seen his life in the same way.

  “I could not be more pleased—”

  The front door blew open. He smelled damp air and wet clothing when Agatha washed inside.

  “It’s a wicked one out there!” she exclaimed. “Have I missed tea?”

  Water cascaded from her bonnet, dripped off her eyelashes. Apparently she hadn’t worn a coat when she went out because her white blouse was stuck to her skin.

  She ran her hands down the front, sluicing water from her chest. “I ran halfway home.”

  From where? He ought to have known she’d gone out.

  She did look invigorated. Her chest heaved with the exertion of her outing. Her eyes had never looked such a bright emerald color.

  Still, it was her smile that made his insides grow warm—no, not warm but hot—pulsing hot. He shouldn’t be feeling like he wanted to haul his wife upstairs and toss her upon his bed with his mother sitting shoulder to shoulder with him.

  It was indecent.

  “Oh, no,” Mother declared with a sly turn of her lips. “I believe you are right on time.”

  * * *

  Agatha dashed upstairs, shed her wet clothes for dry ones then hurried back down.

  “Where’s Mother?”

  Three steaming teacups sat on the side table along with half a dozen oatmeal cookies but William sat by himself on the couch.

  “Napping, she said.”

  Since she hadn’t taken time to dry her hair, droplets fell on her fresh bodice. She rubbed the damp spots with her fingertips.

  Sensing William’s gaze intent on the movement of her fingers, she rubbed more vigorously. Parts of her shimmied that were fit for only a husband’s eyes to see.

  Glancing up quickly, she had the satisfaction of watching his face flush, his chest heave on a held breath.

  “Will you pass me a cookie, William?” she asked with the most innocent smile she could imagine, but all the while thanking Mrs. Bea for the lessons in seduction.

  She most definitely had his attention now. The question remained, could she convince him to do more than gawk at her, to set aside his fear of killing her and make her his wife in every way.

  Taking a nibble of the cookie he handed her, she sighed in exaggerated pleasure before she dropped a crumb on her breast.

  “I’m such a mess.” Once again she made a great show of brushing her bosom.

  William caught her hand, his expression tense. “Where were you?”

  “Walking in the rain.” He could hardly argue since she’d come in soaked to the skin.

  He needn’t know she’d been to see Dr. Connor and gotten a letter informing William that he was no more likely to kill her than any other woman he might have married.

  “I love the rain, don’t you?”

  “You didn’t go to the saloon?” His brows lowered, and his gaze narrowed upon her.

  “I did not!” she vowed because she hadn’t.

  That did not mean she wouldn’t. A time was coming when she would have to. She could not know that Brunne was in Tanners Ridge and not confront her.

  If not for the way she had treated Agatha all her life, then because of Ivy.

  Sometime within the next couple of days, her sister would be here and her new baby with her. If Hilda discovered there was a child and believed her to be the missing Maggie, who knew what insanity might be triggered?

  “Good,” he said.

  Another crumb fell on her chest. She ignored it because William did not. He followed the descent of the oatmeal-crusted raisin with his eyes.

  “I’ll deal with Hilda Brunne.”

  She nodded, but the truth was Agatha needed to be the one to deal with her. As her victim, it was Agatha’s right.

  Silence fell while William stared at the crumb and she stared at his face.

  Slowly, he lifted his hand. Covered the piece of cookie with his palm. Quickly, she raised her hand to cover his...pressed it closer to her heart.

  As if moving through warm, languid water he bent his head toward her. She lifted her lips to him.

  “Oh! Tea!” came Dove’s voice from the hall. “I was afraid we had missed it. Hurry, Bert, before it cools.”

  “At least someone looks flushed with pleasure,” she grumbled so silently that she doubted even William heard it.

  Or maybe he did. His eye twinkled, right in the corner like a tiny star winking at midnight.

  She flicked the crumb away with her own finger at the same time as the lovebirds hurried hand in hand into the parlor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  William awoke to sunlight poking his eyelids, to the slam of hammers pounding wood in the yard.

  This was going to be a hot day. The workers would be getting an early start on building the dance floor.

  “Hey!” he heard a deep voice shout. “Bring back my hammer!”

  Miss Valentine must be helping.

  He sat up, scrubbed his hand a
cross his face.

  He’d spent a restless night knowing that Agatha was only a thin wall away. He could not help but wonder if she had turned and flopped about on her mattress the way he had...or worse, if she had not.

  He could not recall ever being so unsettled when he ought to be sleeping. Every time he’d drifted off, he dreamed of cookie crumbs...thousands of them. Sometimes he’d struggle to get to Agatha through waist-deep crumbs, other times he’d tried to cross a road to get to her but was blinded by oatmeal and raisin chunks falling from a clear blue sky.

  Grabbing his robe from the foot of the bed, he shrugged into it, but left it hanging open because of the heat.

  Walking to the window, he gazed down below to check on the transformation of the yard.

  In the far right corner tables were set up. The dance floor was about halfway finished. Only a few boards were in place for the musicians’ platform.

  The roses were beginning to wilt.

  All but the one named Agatha.

  His wife stood on the center of the incomplete dance floor seemingly untroubled by the carpenters working madly around the hem of her skirt.

  Her attention was caught up in reading a letter she gripped in one small fist. She seemed to be smiling at it.

  All of a sudden she glanced up at his window. Seeing him, she shoved the note behind her back. It was as though she did not want him to see what it was, as though he might be able to read it from the second-story window.

  While he studied the expression on her face trying to judge what she was up to, he noticed that she was not looking at his face but his bare chest where the robe gaped away.

  “At least someone is flushed with pleasure,” he mumbled, repeating her lament of yesterday.

  The thing was, he wasn’t sure which of them was more agitated by pleasure.

  A knock rapped on his door. His mother marched in, dressed and ready for a long day of party preparations. No doubt she had risen well before dawn.

  “There’s a man at the door. He wants to complain about the saloon.”

  “To the sheriff or the mayor?”

  “I doubt he’s that particular. The woman in the parlor, though, is demanding to see the sheriff. What are you doing lying abed so late, young man?”