by Lisa Plumley
It would be easy. And wonderful. Provided Miss Walsh woke up. Maybe she was too puny to inspire Papa’s manly devotion.
“Daisy? Daisy!” Mr. Walsh moaned. He appeared beside himself with worry and altogether indifferent to the women’s uncomplimentary talk. “Oh, what have I done? It was only a raffle!”
“It was a very wonderful raffle,” Miss Reardon assured him. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure your sister will be fine.”
Trustingly, Mr. Walsh nodded. His spectacles gleamed in the summer sunlight. He stroked his sister’s face, his gaze full of love and distress. He was dedicated to her, Élodie realized. Any woman who could stir up such affection simply must be good.
That boded well for Élodie. And especially for Papa.
She began to feel excited about the plan again.
“Yes,” Mrs. Archer added. “But we must get Miss Walsh out of this dizzying sunshine and into someplace cooler and calmer.”
Instantly, Élodie recognized her cue. They had not planned this part. But there was only one possible thing to say.
“My papa’s quarters above the stable are cool and calm,” she volunteered in her most innocent tone. “And Papa is the winner of the raffle drawing, too. Why don’t we take Miss Walsh straight there.”
Chapter Eight
Even by midafternoon, Owen had not forgotten what Miss Reardon had said about him on the train-depot platform.
Just because you always believe the worst of everyone, she’d declared indignantly, doesn’t mean it’s right!
She’d called him a “hard man,” too. A hard man! That, coupled with Thomas Walsh’s reaction to Owen’s questions about the raffle drawing, had left him feeling irritable—and puzzled. Why was he the only one in town who was suspicious and untrusting enough to want to shut down the raffle?
Everyone else saw no problem with the event. That much had been unmistakable from Thomas Walsh’s perplexed looks. But Owen saw myriad problems—all of them stemming from men’s baser natures…natures he was all too familiar with. He’d certainly given free rein to his own freewheeling faults more than a time or two.
Renée had thought she could save him from those faults, Owen recalled as he ushered the last of his boarding horses into a stall and shut the gate behind them. She’d certainly enumerated those faults to him often enough. And she’d done her best to stamp out Owen’s “reprehensible character,” too. But maybe his wife had been wrong. Maybe, even given more time than she’d had, Renée couldn’t have saved Owen. Not from himself.
Maybe, despite all his efforts, he was beyond redemption.
Weighed down by the notion, Owen strode the length of his stable, double-checking all the horses. The beasts nickered. A few nosed him as he passed by. He found a sweet word and a pat for each one, feeling a little better as he made his rounds.
At the end of the last row, he spied Gus. “I’m closing up early,” he told his helper. “Stable’s full, thanks to all the thieves and miscreants in town today. If you’re done watering and feeding all these beasts, you can go on home.”
Gus eyed him skeptically. “Is this a trick?”
Owen frowned. “Have I ever pulled a trick on you?”
“Far as I know, you ain’t never pulled a trick on nobody. You’re as straight-arrow as they come. Fact is, it wouldn’t go down too poorly if you cut yourself loose once in a while.”
Owen liked hearing that. That meant he’d done well.
“The fella I used to work for woulda had himself a conniption if I’d gone home afore dark.” Gus squinted at the sunshine streaming in. “Near as I can tell, it ain’t dark yet.”
“Well…” Owen thought about it. Blandly, he gazed at Gus. He shrugged. “There’s always horse droppings to be shoveled. If you’d rather work all night, I won’t stand in your way.”
“I was joking!” Gus shook his head. “Tarnation, boss. You’re about as much fun as an undertaker with a rash.”
Owen only gazed at him. Work wasn’t supposed to be fun.
“I know, I know. Don’t say it—‘Hard work today makes for peace of mind tomorrow.’ So you’ve told me. Over and over.”
Owen habitually told Élodie that, too. It was essential she understood how important hard work and good effort were. Until Élodie was capable of seeing to her own well-being, Owen meant to ensure the most providential future for her himself.
It was the least he could do. He wasn’t the most effusive of fathers; he knew that. He loved Élodie; he loved her to the stars and back. But Owen didn’t know if he loved her enough—if he loved her the way she deserved…the way Renée would have loved her. Just as insurance, Owen meant to give Élodie all the material blessings he could. That way, his own petit chou wouldn’t be too handicapped by not having a maman in her life.
He crossed his arms. “If you don’t like it, don’t stay.”
“All right! You don’t need to tell me twice.” His helper grinned, then jabbed his pitchfork into the nearest hay pile. “I ain’t one of those numbskulls out there, all cowed by your stone face and tree-trunk arms, you know. I seen you with Élodie a time or two. And if you ain’t the sweetest, taffy-pullingest—”
“I’m changing my mind about that manure shoveling.”
“No need to break out them crazy eyes. I’m going.” Still smiling, Gus grabbed his hat. He stuck it on his head, then hastened for the doorway. He saluted. “Tell Élodie hello for me. And tell her I hope her plan went down without a hitch, okay?”
Owen nodded. Gus probably meant the shindig down at the train depot. Élodie had been all keyed up about it this morning at Mrs. Archer’s. Likely, Mrs. Archer and her lady friends had made a fuss over Thomas Walsh’s raffle-drawing brouhaha, and Élodie had been swept up in all the excitement. It was only natural. Élodie didn’t have any other feminine influences. She had to look to Mrs. Archer and her friends for guidance.
Now that Élodie was getting older, it occurred to him, she would need even more feminine guidance—help in taking on such things as sewing, cooking, cleaning and embroidery. Owen might have darned a pair of socks a time or two, but he was ill equipped to teach his daughter any of those necessary home-keeping skills. When he sewed, his big, blunt-tipped fingertips got tangled in the thread. When he—infrequently—cooked, he turned out griddle cakes, pots of beans with charred edges or bakery-bought toast. When he cleaned—well, he rarely cleaned, beyond necessary tidying. Mrs. Sunley did all the scrubbing and scouring herself, as part of her housekeeping duties, and Miss O’Neill took care of Owen’s and Élodie’s laundry.
That left him with embroidery. Imagining himself trying to practice that intrinsically feminine art, hunched over a wooden hoop with his resolute gaze fixed on a nightshirt or some such, Owen shook his head. Likely, he’d embroider his trouser leg to his nightshirt, then gash holes in both garments while trying to free himself with his trusty jackknife—the only implement he ever found truly handy in his ramshackle “sewing kit.”
Renée had embroidered like an angel, he remembered, feeling sobered by the recollection. Renée would have taught Élodie all manner of stitchery. She’d embellished Owen’s handkerchiefs with fancy French monograms. She’d commemorated their wedding by putting up a set of fine pillowcases. But that good bed linen had been lost on the journey westward, and over the years, Owen had grown as comfortable with plain cotton linens as he had with cactus patches, flat Western dialects and lonesome fatherhood.
Reminded of Élodie, Owen glanced at the closed door through which Gus had exited. Élodie would be tickled if Owen fetched her from Mrs. Archer’s place early today. Deciding to do just that, he gave the closest horse one last pat. Then he headed upstairs for a washup and a fresh shirt, the better to fetch his daughter without also affronting her nose.
Cheered by the thought of seeing his little girl again, Owen took the stairs two at a time, headed for that washup, stripping off his sweaty shirt as he went.
Snugly tucked into an unfamiliar bed, being ridicul
ously fussed over by an assortment of unfamiliar but very sociable women, Daisy sighed. She wanted to catch Thomas’s eye. She wanted her brother to step in and put a stop to all this commotion, since her own protests had gone nowhere. But at the moment, Thomas appeared to be engaged with an animated Miss Reardon in one corner of the room. He didn’t seem capable of noticing anyone else.
Wistfully, Daisy watched her brother and Miss Reardon. She couldn’t help feeling entranced by them. The look of adoration in Miss Reardon’s eyes appeared quite naked…and quite profound, too. It must be wonderful to be looked at in such a way, Daisy thought. It must be wonderful to be listened to, as Thomas was being listened to just then, as though happiness began and ended with the sound of your voice and the content of your thoughts.
Whatever it took, Daisy had to make sure her brother didn’t fritter away his chances with Miss Reardon. But for now…
Well, for now, Daisy had to decide how to cope with this unexpected situation. Her cookery and homemaking expertise had been raffled off to one lucky winner. The commandeering Mrs. Archer had instructed everyone to bring Daisy to the home of that as-yet-unmet winner, Owen Cooper. And no one except Daisy had disagreed with that plan. So now it was done.
Daisy had been unable to protest with any efficacy as she’d been shepherded, woozily, through the streets of Morrow Creek and brought here, to a modestly furnished but clean set of rooms above a flourishing livery stable on Main Street. So far, all she’d been able to glean about the mysterious Owen Cooper was that he was a stable owner, a widowed father and a “hard man.”
This last bit of information, breathlessly conveyed by Miss Reardon, had done little to set Daisy’s troubled mind at ease.
“Is he…respectable?” Daisy had ventured during their walk to the stable. “Is he kind? Is he very awful at cooking?”
She hoped he was dreadful at it, so he would appreciate her skills doubly. Also, she hoped he was old, feeble and wholly unable to follow through on the lewd gestures his townsmen had seemed so fond of making during the raffle drawing.
But surely Thomas would protect her from anything like that. Wouldn’t he? Thomas would never knowingly put her in harm’s way. He trusted his neighbors and friends—including Mr. Cooper. That meant, to Daisy’s way of thinking, she could, too.
“I daresay Mr. Cooper is atrocious at cooking!” Mrs. Sunley had cast Daisy—and her unsteady posture—an assessing glance. She’d frowned. “But then, you never know. It’s devilishly hard to discern these things just by looking at someone, isn’t it?”
Miss O’Neill had elbowed her, a movement Daisy had felt plainly, on account that Miss O’Neill had been guiding Daisy with her other arm. To Daisy, Miss O’Neill had offered a smile. “I have no doubt Mr. Cooper’s prospects will be immeasurably improved by your arrival here in town, Miss Walsh. We’re all looking forward to seeing Mr. Cooper…progress in that area.”
At that, all four women—and the adorable little girl who’d accompanied them—had exchanged eager, knowing looks. Those looks had puzzled Daisy then and still did now. She took their cryptic glances to mean that Owen Cooper needed improvement in some area, but she couldn’t imagine what it was.
“Won’t he be upset to find me ensconced in his home?” Daisy had protested as the foursome—with Thomas’s flustered help—had ushered her upstairs and into bed “for some much-needed rest and recuperation.”
“This is fairly intrusive—”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Archer had interrupted. “He’ll love it!”
“He’ll be grateful,” Mrs. Sunley had added. “What man doesn’t like to come home to find a woman in his bed?”
Thomas, blushing, had pretended not to hear that remark. So had Miss Reardon, who’d busied herself with brewing a pot of coffee and offering a cup to “enliven” Daisy after her “ordeal.”
Only Élodie had answered Daisy’s question with candor.
“Papa won’t mind. He’s as even-keeled as the day is long.” The little girl had nodded, absently hugging a rag doll. Her gaze had traveled over Daisy’s face with avid curiosity. “Papa doesn’t get riled up, not ever. But he does swear sometimes.”
On that note, improbably, Daisy had relaxed an inch or two. Of all the people she’d met today—excepting her brother, of course—she liked little Élodie the most. Any man who could single-handedly raise such a lovely daughter simply had to have positive qualities, Daisy reasoned. That made her feel immensely reassured about Owen Cooper.
After all, little Élodie was lively and smart, polite and out-spoken and very sweet. She was also disarmingly keen to be near Daisy at all times, even to the point of carrying her coffee cup to her…and mimicking, with her own small tin cup of water, the precise way Daisy sipped the recuperative brew.
“I’m feeling much better now, thank you.” Daisy set down her coffee cup and saucer with a rattle. “I honestly don’t think I need to stay abed this way!” she told all the assembled women for what must be the tenth time in a row. “Surely there are things I could be doing to prepare for the first lesson. I did make a promise to Thomas, after all. The winner will surely be counting on me! The sooner I start working—”
“Don’t be silly!” Mrs. Sunley bustled over, casting a hasty glance at the bedroom’s open doorway. “The first lesson can wait! You’ve been through quite a shock, arriving here to such a fuss. Of course it overwhelmed you!” Firmly, Mrs. Sunley tucked her in more securely. “You should stay right there in bed until Mr. Cooper arrives. Then he’s guaranteed to take to this idea instantly! I reckon, of all the men in town, Owen Cooper ought to be the most persuaded by finding a woman in his bed!”
At that scandalous statement, everyone stilled. Then…
“What Viola means, of course,” Mrs. Archer hastened to say, giving her cohort a glowering glance, “is that Mr. Cooper is a generous man who would be happy to assist a lady in need. Any lady, any time, for whatever reason. Isn’t that right, Abbey?”
“Oh, yes!” Miss O’Neill bobbed her head up and down. “Yes!”
Everyone else averred the same thing, even Thomas. Daisy knew she should have felt comforted. Yet something still niggled at her. Something Mrs. Sunley had said a moment ago…
“Is Mr. Cooper entirely amenable to being my student?” Daisy asked. She peered at Mrs. Sunley. “You said he’d be ‘guaranteed’ to take to this idea…but why would he need to be persuaded?” With the sight of a woman in his bed, no less! “Mr. Cooper did enter his name in the raffle, didn’t he?”
To Daisy, entering the raffle would seem proof enough of his willingness to learn—no further persuasion necessary. But at her question, all the women went as still as statues in a city museum. Then Mrs. Archer put one hand to the brooch at her neck, sucked in a breath and gave a choked little chuckle. “Why, how else would he have won?” she asked.
“Yes!” Miss O’Neill parroted. “How else would he have won?”
Something about their odd demeanor put Daisy on guard. She squinted at the women, trying to figure out why their behavior bothered her…then gave up. Conrad had always told her she was an awful judge of character. She guessed he was correct.
“The only thing that matters is that my papa won!” Élodie announced. “When he gets here and finds out, he’ll be so happy!”
Warmly, Daisy smiled at the little girl. She appreciated her efforts to be welcoming, but… “None of you answered my question,” Daisy pointed out, surprising herself with her own tenacity. “Mr. Cooper did enter his name in the raffle, didn’t he?”
At first, no one answered. Then, into the silence…
“He did not enter his name” came a decisive male voice.
Startled, Daisy glanced toward that sound. A very tall, very disgruntled-looking man stood in the doorway. He swept the jam-packed bedroom with an intimidating look, seemed to come to the conclusion that merely looking at everyone was insufficient to properly cow them, then growled out a second statement in a tone as deep as the one he’d initially
entered the room with.
“Furthermore,” he said, striding nearer, “he’d like to know what the hell you’re all doing in his goddamn bedroom!”
At his multiple profanities, Miss O’Neill gasped. She crossed herself, then took a step back. Miss Reardon shuffled a bit closer to Thomas. Eagerly he took her elbow. Mrs. Sunley put her hands on her hips. Mrs. Archer stiffened her spine and hauled in another deep breath, evidently prepared to do battle.
Daisy had the sensation that Mrs. Archer did that often. But she registered all those details only at the most peripheral level. Because most of Daisy’s attention—honestly, almost all her attention—was busy with the arresting sight before her.
Improbably, the man who’d just arrived was naked from the waist up. He was holding a bundled-up shirt. He was wearing his trousers with his braces lowered, allowing those trousers to dip scandalously low on his frame. He was…simply put, stunning, from his finely honed male musculature to his intriguingly dark chest hair to the faint sheen of sweat beading on his skin.
He was broad shouldered. He was tanned. And although his face bore the marks of a battered life, those few imperfections couldn’t mar his appeal. He was as fine a specimen of manhood as she’d ever seen, Daisy decided. Unlike his fellow townsmen, he was, she thought in a dither, neither lecherous nor slovenly. He was…fascinating. Simply fascinating. His face, his eyes, his mouth… She felt compelled to stare, feeling almost as though, by doing so, she could know him somehow, could learn his secrets, his thoughts, his every wish and desire…
He caught her gawking. His frown deepened impressively.
Into the breach came Élodie. Fearlessly she charged ahead where everyone else evidently feared to tread. “Papa!”
Élodie ran to him, arms open. At that, Daisy’s heart jumped in her throat. Papa? Papa! That could mean only one thing.
This was Owen Cooper. And she was in his bed. Oh, dear.
