by E. E. Burke
Smoke lingered above empty tracks. The train had departed. Damn railroad, never ran on time unless he was late.
He started up the steps to the platform.
There stood a small woman in a long, dark cloak with a hood pulled over her head; beside her sagged a tapestry satchel. He couldn’t see her face because she was peering off in the opposite direction, as if searching for someone.
Him?
David’s scalp tingled. The odd sensation raced down his arms, beneath his skin. Not anticipation. Anxiety, more like. He didn’t look forward to meeting Miss Lowell and delivering the bad news about his sister’s inexcusable deception. Maggie had thrust a handful of letters at him and then taken Fannie and vanished, leaving him holding the bag—or letters in this case. Furious or not, he would shoulder the responsibility, as he always had.
He silently willed the woman on the platform to turn so he could see her.
She twisted around, grabbing at her hood as the wind tore it off. Loosened hair whipped across her face. With gloved fingers, she brushed at the errant strands.
Some call it flaxen. I’d say it’s more the color of honey. She’d given an apt description. His fingers itched to touch her hair and find out if it was as warm as it looked.
Her eyes widened as he approached. She’d been honest in describing them, too. Not blue or green, but a blending of both, constantly shifting, like the color of the sea. Being prone to fanciful imagery, you might call them mermaid eyes.
He wasn’t the least bit fanciful, but he could see how one might mistake her for a mythical beauty. As legend had it, mermaids lured sailors to their death. This one didn’t appear dangerous only cold. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose had turned red. Why hadn’t she gone inside? Maybe book learning didn’t equate to common sense.
David snatched off his hat and attempted to smooth his hair—a mess made worse by the wind. “Miss Lowell?”
She gazed up at him with something akin to awe. “Mr. O’Brien.” The odd way she said his name, turning the O into an Ah, sent a tickle up his spine. “I’m very pleased to meet you, at last.”
What could he say? He hadn’t known she was arriving until this morning. He’d admit his sister set up this arranged marriage, and neither of them had to honor their commitment because it was a farce. That’s what he’d say, if he could peel his tongue off the roof of his mouth.
Saints, she was even lovelier up close. Petite to the point of being fragile, like that fine china he refused to carry in the store because it broke too easily.
At last, he found his voice. “A pleasure to meet you as well.”
“You look exactly as I expected,” she murmured.
“Ah, well…” He felt foolishly awkward and unsure. “You aren’t at all what I expected.”
Her look of wounded confusion put in a kink in his insides.
“What I mean is, your photograph is nice, but you’re prettier in person.”
“Oh…” She put her hand to her chest as if relieved. “Thank goodness. I thought you meant you were disappointed.”
She couldn’t be serious.
“Not with you.”
A shy glimpse through her lashes turned his insides to mush.
Careful. The warning from some still-functioning part of his mind jerked him away from the dangerous edge of infatuation. Beauty aside, he knew nothing about her. Well, except for what she’d put in those letters. In between waiting on customers, he’d read them. Well educated, from a family of good standing, she had been through a rough time, which she said gave her an especial sympathy for his situation. Left to his own devices, he wouldn’t find a better bride, and certainly not before Christmas.
David’s nerves twanged like an out-of-tune fiddle. Blasted cold had stolen his reason. Accepting her under false pretenses was as bad as Maggie deceiving her. He could not lead this woman on and let her believe he’d written those letters.
She drew up the hood of her cloak. “Is it always this windy?”
Good, she might decide for herself she didn’t like it here. He made another pass with his fingers through his hair before he secured his hat. “If you don’t like the wind, you won’t like Kansas.”
Alarm flashed across her face. Then she squared her shoulders, standing erect as a toy soldier. “I can manage the wind.”
She declared it with such confidence he almost believed her, notwithstanding one good gust would blow her away. Brave lass. She’d come so far, all the way across the country, and she carried herself with dignity and grace.
David couldn’t bring himself to destroy her dreams, not out here on the railroad platform, buffeted by a cold, cruel wind. He’d take her back to the store. Let Maggie explain, considering she had created this mess in the first place.
Decision made, his tension eased. He reached for her satchel. “Let’s go somewhere warm.”
“Warm sounds wonderful.” She motioned in the direction of the depot door. “There’s the rest of my luggage.”
A porter stood guard near a large case closed with straps. Of course Miss Lowell would have more than one small bag. She’d come out here believing she was getting married.
With a sigh, he headed for the suitcase. He would address Miss Lowell’s misconceptions later, after she had some food in her belly to soften the blow. After she’d rested, his sister could bring her back to catch a train.
The porter smiled at Victoria as if he knew her. “Glad to see you found your groom, miss. The conductor and station manager was arguin’ ’bout which one of them could talk you into takin’ his place.”
Already hopeful replacements were lining up.
David didn’t care. He wasn’t keeping her. Still, he didn’t appreciate having his tardiness pointed out. He gave the porter two bits. “For watching her bag.”
The old fellow shook his head and tried to return the money. “You don’t need to—”
“Keep it.” He wasn’t in the mood to hear more about Victoria’s admirers. “I’ll take her luggage.”
Ignoring her surprised expression, he hefted the heavy case with his right hand and took the smaller bag in his left. The uneven weight caused him to favor his bad leg. Not a great deal. She might not even notice.
Miss Lowell glided beside him as they crossed the platform. When they reached the stairs, she touched his arm. “I could carry the satchel, if it would help.”
She’d noticed—and considered him too infirm to make it down a few steps. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was pity.
“No, I don’t need help,” he said flatly, and then added, “Thank you.”
Hurt flashed in her gaze a second before she lowered her head and the hood concealed her expression.
For Pete’s sake, she was being polite and he was acting like an ass. He’d shown up late, had been tongue-tied and inconsiderate. Then again, he hadn’t anticipated having to leave his business in the middle of the day to fetch a bride he didn’t want.
He tromped down the steps and set the large case on the ground in order to assist her. She lifted her skirts and descended without waiting for his hand. Growing frustrated, he tossed her bags into the back of the wagon. He knew proper manners, but she wasn’t giving him a chance to display them.
“Allow me.” He grasped her around the middle and his fingers circled an unbelievably tiny waist. Desire, longing, possessiveness, or some potent combination of all three, slammed into him. He thrust her upward with such force she nearly fell over the buckboard.
He mumbled an apology, should’ve known better than to put his hands on her. When he swung up to the seat, she shifted her skirts to make room, or she was trying to get away.
“I hope you didn’t run into any trouble on the way to the station.” Her concerned tone just made him feel worse.
Miss Lowell wasn’t to blame for any of this. She’d come out here in good faith and deserved patience and kindness, even if he couldn’t give her what she wanted.
Gathering the reins, he turned the
horse onto the road leading away from the station. “No, there’s no trouble. One of my customers had a large order that required my assistance. In my business, I can’t afford to be rude.”
“Of course not, I understand.”
He doubted she had any first-hand knowledge of the effort it took to earn money. The fur trim on her fine wool cloak, her decorum, even her manner of speaking, gave her away. Which begged the question, why had she left behind her comfortable life?
She’d mentioned a scandal created when her betrothed broke off their engagement. Unbearable shame, David understood. The ceaseless gossip and ugly rumors, the pitying glances; he couldn’t walk into church without feeling judged. If Miss Lowell had suffered half of what he’d put up with, he couldn’t blame her for leaving, and even admired her spunk in setting out alone to start over. It wouldn’t hurt to get to know her better and find out if there might be a way he could help her.
The horse bobbed its head and leaned into the traces as it pulled the wagon onto the bricked road leading through the center of town. Clopping hooves, jangling harnesses and a distant train whistle filled the tense silence.
David had no problem creating conversation with customers, but for some reason, his tongue remained tied around this woman. Courting made him nervous, but he wasn’t wooing Miss Lowell. He would admit to a strong attraction.
The voluminous cape enveloped her dainty but well-proportioned form. He’d encircled a trim waist and detected the slight flare of her hips. A familiar ache speared through him. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, and he had never been with one this beautiful. The idea of keeping her appealed to him more than it should.
“Look out, you idiot!”
The shout jerked David’s attention to a red trolley car rumbling down the middle of the street. He hauled on the reins, just managing to turn the horse and veer from disaster. He ignored the blustering driver, who shook a fist at him.
Miss Lowell clung to the seat. “Your horse appears to be dozing.”
A nicer way of saying he wasn’t paying attention. He was tempted to point out that he wasn’t careless, but then decided to let the matter pass. No need to make excuses to a woman who’d be leaving.
She stared straight ahead, gripping her cloak at the neck to keep the wind from blowing her hood back. Had he been prepared for her arrival, he would’ve hired a carriage. As it was, he left in such a hurry he’d forgotten to bring a lap rug or blanket.
“Here, take this…” He slowed long enough to shrug out of his overcoat. “The wind makes the air feel colder.”
“Are you sure you don’t need your coat?”
“I’m not cold.” Not unless cold feet counted.
She pulled his coat around her with a grateful smile. “Thank you. I shouldn’t be so chilled with this heavy cloak.”
“Hard to stay warm when you don’t have extra padding.” The quip was out before he could stop it. He would’ve slapped his forehead if both hands weren’t on the reins. Extra padding might keep her warmer, but she didn’t need to put on weight, as he’d implied.
“Sorry, what I meant to say is, you aren’t…” The correct description escaped him.
“Fat?”
“Large.”
“No, I have never been large.”
“Nor have my feet. They fit quite well into my mouth.” He cringed, again. His reaction to being nervous, crack another bad joke.
She gripped the lapels of his coat, appearing unfazed. “You’d think I would be used to the cold, being from Massachusetts.”
Bless her. She’d rescued him from further embarrassment by introducing a non-offensive subject. “You’re from Boston, or thereabouts.”
“Thereabouts.”
He had heard all sorts of accents, but hers wasn’t familiar, almost British, but not quite. Upper crust was the term that came to mind. How had Maggie managed to snare a beautiful, highborn lady with nothing more than a few letters? In Miss Lowell’s responses, she’d called him entertaining and witty. Obviously, Maggie had lied.
“Will the ceremony be tomorrow?”
Her question pulled him out of his musings. “The ceremony?”
The look she cast said he was in danger of dropping from the rank of rude hayseed to drooling halfwit. “Our wedding ceremony.”
“The wedding, of course…” What other ceremony would she mean?
Dread spiraled to pit of his stomach. There would be no ceremony. He had to tell her. Except, he wasn’t prepared to crush her hopes while avoiding traffic. In fact, it felt wrong to send her away without at least giving her a chance.
A crazy idea, but it had merit. Miss Lowell possessed extraordinary beauty, fine manners and a quick wit. That she hadn’t asked him to turn around by now spoke well of her patience—or sense of humor. Things might work out, once he got around to explaining he hadn’t written those letters. If he told her that, after offending her repeatedly, she would leave and then he’d have to start the grueling process of finding a willing bride, and he was running out of time.
“Do you have a day in mind?” She sounded less confident. More worried.
He wouldn’t be rushed into marriage, as he had been before, but he couldn’t drag his heels, either. Maggie would be gone after Christmas.
Miss Lowell could stay with them until then. That would give Fannie time to get to know her, and he could judge how the two of them would get along. Three weeks ought to be enough time to decide whether the Boston miss would suit.
“How about Christmas Eve?”
Chapter 2
“Christmas Eve?” Victoria laced her fingers tight to keep her hands from trembling. First, her betrothed had been late, and now he wanted to delay the wedding by three weeks. His suggestion wouldn’t be so alarming if he hadn’t told her how eager he was to marry. She could think of no reason he’d want to delay, unless she’d somehow displeased him.
Prettier than her photograph, that’s what he said. He might like her face, but be less interested in her form. Men preferred lush bodies, so she used bustles and specially designed corsets to create the illusion of fuller curves. Mr. O’Brien must’ve realized this when he put his hands around her waist. She’d experienced a tingle of pleasure at his touch, but then he’d teased her about her lack of padding. Perhaps the remark hadn’t been in jest. After all, he kept looking at her strangely.
Victoria straightened her spine. Slumping wouldn’t make her more attractive. “Where will I stay until then?”
His forehead scrunched as if he hadn’t thought about such a small thing as her reputation. “You can room with my sister, Maggie. Fannie sleeps next door. That’ll give you and her a chance to get to know each other better. Make the transition easier.”
“I suppose that does make sense.” It would make more sense if he’d brought it up in his last letter instead of now, as if he’d just come up with an excuse for delay.
She pulled the hood lower, as the wind kept catching it, trying to rip it off. Being nervous, she hadn’t conversed much. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t bright. Bertram had dubbed her “Miss Goldfinch.” She hadn’t appreciated being compared to a flighty little bird. Granted she was small, but she wasn’t a birdbrain.
Even if Mr. O’Brien wasn’t impressed by her appearance or wittiness, that still didn’t explain his tardy arrival or his odd behavior. He’d gawked at her, stammered, spoke in short, curt sentences when he spoke at all, and had heaved her into the wagon as if he were handling a sack of grain. Where was the sweet, sensitive man who’d penned such heart-stopping prose?
Nerves could explain it. Bashful men communicated better in writing than speaking, and he might be one of them. She would try to put him at ease and look for the opportunity to make a good impression.
She straightened with fresh resolve and took in her surroundings. A busy railroad town, he’d called it. The congested traffic would support this observation. However, she hadn’t expected her new home to look so…well, civilized. “Fort Sc
ott looks different than I pictured.”
“How so?”
“There are more buildings, and a great many are made of brick and stone. Even your streets are paved.”
“Locally made brick, the stone is quarried nearby. We have a lumber mill, so you’ll see plenty of frame buildings, as well.”
Oh good, she’d managed to get him to converse. About construction. Still, it was an improvement over awkward silence.
The cold air smelled faintly of wood smoke. To the east, skies remained clear, but the wind was blowing in heavy, dark clouds from the west.
She sighed with disappointment. “I was hoping to see those endless blue skies you wrote about. We don’t have many clear days in Boston. There’s always a haze from the factories.”
“There are few factories out here. We have a large foundry and a sugar processing plant, but the wind blows away the smoke.” As if to make his point, a gust lifted his hat. He grabbed the brim and tugged it down.
“We have to wait until there’s an ocean breeze for the skies to clear.”
It struck her, again, how far she’d traveled. There was no ocean for over a thousand miles in any direction. She was in the middle of the country, on the edge of what had been the frontier not so long ago.
“Wasn’t Fort Scott originally the site of an army fort? Where is it?”
“There haven’t been soldiers here since the railroads got built.” Mr. O’Brien pointed at a crowded street. “You can’t see it from here, but just down there is what used to be the center of the old fort. We turned the parade grounds into a city park.”
“Amazing how quickly things change…” The wagon’s wheels bumped over iron rails. “And now you have street lights and trolley cars.”
“You were expecting dirt roads and covered wagons?”
Her lips curved at her fanciful notion of what a Kansas town would be like. “Yes, I suppose I was…and buffalo.”
“You won’t see any buffalo wandering the streets of Fort Scott. The herds in Kansas were killed off more than twenty years ago. During the summer, you’ll see—and smell—the cattle when they bring the trains up from Texas.
