by Lisa Plumley
Conrad. Was that the man who’d abandoned her? Owen disliked him already. He supposed he shouldn’t be so quick to judge him. Likely, he should assign some—if not all—the blame for Daisy’s situation to her. That’s what Renée would have done.
His wife had believed that goodness was the duty of every person, with no excuses made or allowed. But Owen couldn’t bring himself to see things that way. His instincts told him Daisy was an innocent. Owen trusted his instincts. If he hadn’t, he’d never have survived all those rough-and-tumble years on his own.
“If you write him a message, I’ll see that it’s sent,” Owen promised her. He scarcely knew Daisy Walsh, he reminded himself. He shouldn’t involve himself in her private life. But something about Daisy made him want to help her—to watch over her. “Morrow Creek has a telegraph station in town and an adjunct office out by the mountains. Your message will go out quickly.”
“Oh. That’s good. Thank you.” With a fresh smile, Daisy glanced up at him. “Conrad—Mr. Parish, I mean—will be relieved to know I made it here to Morrow Creek,” she assured him.
As though he were back at a faro table, assessing players’ tells one by one, Owen filed away that name. Conrad Parish.
“Was there some doubt about that?” he asked.
“About my arriving here safely? Well…” Daisy gave him a somewhat waggish smile. “A bit. I’m afraid this entire journey has been something of an adventure for me. First, I jumped off the train, then I arrived to that hero’s welcome my brother arranged, then I was raffled off to you, then I swooned, then I found myself in your bed! All in all, it’s been…stimulating.”
At that memory, Owen felt himself stir. Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “Yes. Élodie is thrilled about her lessons.”
“And I’m thrilled to be giving them. She’s a very sweet girl.” Daisy glanced down the hallway toward Élodie’s bedroom, as though wishing his little girl would emerge and rescue them from their unusual conversation. “You must be so proud. Mrs. Archer and Miss Reardon said you’ve raised Élodie on your own?”
“Mostly.” Uncomfortably, Owen rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t done nearly enough—certainly not enough to be praised for. “I’ve done my best. Renée—that’s my wife,” he clarified for Daisy’s benefit, “Renée would have said Élodie needed more.”
At that, Daisy seemed appalled. “More than her own father? I can’t imagine it!” Warmly, she squeezed his hand. “Anyone can see that as far as Élodie is concerned, you hung the moon.”
Owen glanced down at their hands, no longer touching, but still congenially near one another. He hoped Daisy was right about Élodie. He felt wholly unable to say so.
“You must be tired,” he said. “Especially in your delicate con—” Spying a telltale wariness in Daisy’s face, he thought better of finishing that statement. If she didn’t want to admit her pregnancy, he wouldn’t press her. Not now. “I’ll show you where to clean up. You can use my bedroom while you’re here.”
Confidently, he strode in that direction. But Daisy didn’t follow. Instead, when he turned around, she shot him an empathetic look. “Oh. Your feelings are hurt. I apologize.”
“I’m fine.” He was. He didn’t know what she meant.
“I didn’t mean to say anything unkind about your wife. Honestly, I didn’t! Miss O’Neill and the others told me you’d lost her some years ago. You must miss her very much.”
“Sometimes.” It was the truth. But the original ache he’d felt had faded over the years. Now, he mostly wished Élodie could have had more time with her mother…and he wished his own shortcomings hadn’t pushed Renée west where she’d taken fatally ill in the first place. “I can sleep on a pallet. It’s no trouble.” He gestured. “My bedroom is right this way.”
“I know which way it is. Remember?” Daisy’s audacious grin served to warm him clean through. It all but invited him to recall seeing her there in his bed, too. Her eyes sparkled at him. “But I do appreciate your gentlemanly behavior.”
Likely, Owen thought, that was because she’d experienced so little “gentlemanly behavior” from Conrad Parish—the man who’d moved on to begin another “association” apart from Daisy. But she hadn’t seemed overly troubled by that fact. And despite Daisy’s precarious situation, which should have cooled him toward her, Owen couldn’t help finding her demeanor altogether charming.
He liked her feminine way of walking, too, as she came nearer with the obvious intention of letting him escort her to his bedroom. He liked her fragrance, he liked her nearness…he even liked her bashful habit of examining her high-button shoes.
Just when he’d thought he’d steeled himself to behave in a further “gentlemanly” fashion, Daisy stopped. She put her hand on his arm. His whole body came alive at her touch, making a lie of his good intentions. All he wanted, just then, was to savor her presence. That, and maybe to touch her, too. It occurred to Owen that he might have underestimated how it would affect him to live with a woman again, even if it was only for a short while.
“Thank you for being so kind to me,” Daisy said. “You didn’t have to be, especially given how surprised you were—”
Was that how Conrad Parish had felt? Owen wondered. Surprised by the news of Daisy’s baby? Was that why he’d moved on in such an apparently heartless way? And how did Daisy feel about that? She didn’t appear to be pining for the man…
“—and I promise to do my very best to repay you,” Daisy was saying, “by teaching Élodie every last thing she wants to know.”
At the end of her sincere speech, Daisy beamed up at him. She gave his forearm an additional squeeze, as though making sure her good intentions were clear to him. But all that was truly clear to Owen was that he was in over his head.
He didn’t know how to cope with the conundrum that was Daisy Walsh. She baffled him in ways he hadn’t counted on.
“I might teach you a thing or two, too!” Daisy teased.
“I’d be surprised if you could,” Owen told her truthfully. “I’ve done a lot of things in my life, Daisy—things you’ve probably never even considered doing…most of them bad.”
For a moment Daisy appeared wary. Then, “I meant sewing.”
Of course. Feeling a fool, Owen headed for his bedroom. He tried to banish the memory of Daisy’s curious expression. Undoubtedly she was wondering exactly what he’d done.
He was wondering why he’d all but blurted out the regrets of his past as easily as some people discussed the weather. But there was just something about Daisy…something that encouraged trust. If Owen had believed in romantic twaddle like falling in love in a heartbeat, he might have been concerned. After all, he didn’t have time or space or a need for love in his life.
But for now, he decided, he did have time for this. He had time for making sure Daisy was watched over while in his care.
“There’s a washbasin on the bureau.” He pointed to it. “I’ll bring you a fresh pitcher of water and some towels. The mattress isn’t fancy,” he told her, “but it’s comfortable.”
“Yes. I remember.” She cast him another smile. “Thank you.”
Momentarily transfixed anew by the recollection of Daisy in his bed, Owen went still. Damnation, but she’d looked sweet. He’d likely never forget that sight—not as long as he lived.
“Damn Mrs. Sunley and her interfering ways,” he muttered. “That old busybody should learn to mind her own damn business.”
“Élodie was right,” Daisy observed. “You do cuss a lot.”
Startled, he glanced at her, then waited for her inevitable reprimand. In his experience, women didn’t have much patience for a man’s failings—at least good women didn’t. Daisy, despite her belly-cradling predicament, seemed to be truly good.
But all she did was laugh. “It makes me feel right at home. You should have heard my father! He could swear a blue streak.”
That settled it. He couldn’t comprehend her at all.
“When you’re ready,
we’ll go to dinner,” Owen said in his gruffest tone, unwilling to soften any further. “The Lorndorff Hotel puts out a good spread. You must be hungry. If you already fainted once today—” you already provided more proof of your delicate condition “—you shouldn’t wait too long to eat.”
“Aren’t you sweet, looking after me that way?” Daisy’s reward to him was a sunny smile. “But I won’t hear of going to a hotel restaurant. I’ll cook for you and Élodie right here!”
Owen frowned. “We don’t have much to cook with.”
“Don’t worry. I’m good at making do.”
She was good at making him feel befuddled. Standing near her this way, Owen could scarcely summon up a sensible thought.
“You must be tired,” he repeated. Then, still flummoxed by the fact that she hadn’t chided him for swearing, Owen relented. “But only a fool would argue against a home-cooked meal.”
“You accept? Good! That’s very wise of you.”
“Me? Wise?” At that, Owen shook his head. “I’ve got a word of advice for you there, Daisy—don’t be fooled. I’m not wise.”
Then, before he could blurt out another imprudent word, Owen strode straight out and closed the door, leaving pregnant and unwed Daisy Walsh alone to sort out her predicament…and to wonder, more than likely, what to make of a raffle prizewinner who hadn’t wanted to win at all, but who now couldn’t seem to bear the thought of losing what he hadn’t known he’d needed.
Hellfire. If that wasn’t a muddled thought, Owen didn’t know what was. It was fortunate that whiskey was off-limits to him these days. Otherwise, who knew what other trouble he might find himself in…especially with a lissome woman nearby.
Chapter Eleven
“And these are buttermilk-spice muffins!” Daisy announced in her most jovial and generous tone. “Still warm from the oven.”
With a flourish, she set the muffins on the kitchen table, adding them to the other items she’d already arranged there.
“Ooh! They look so tasty!” Élodie exclaimed. She glanced at her father, who sat across the table from her. “And so pretty!”
Happily, Daisy agreed with that assessment. Even given the limitations of Owen Cooper’s bachelor-like kitchen, she’d still managed to assemble a veritable spread for dinner: baked beans from a tin—but doctored up with molasses, salt pork and plenty of fresh black pepper—a compote of dried apricots and raisins, hot stewed dandelion greens and muffins with apple butter.
“Where did that wicker basket come from?” Owen asked, suspicion evident in his voice. “And that…flowery thing?”
“Flowery thing?” Puzzled, Daisy examined the table. Élodie had helped her assemble plates and cutlery. She’d had her first lesson in cookery, too—a tutorial on using the stove safely. Daisy’s gaze landed on the lining of the muffin basket. “You mean the napkin I used? There were some lovely linens crammed in the back of the cupboard. They were clean, so I ironed them. And now…voilà! A very nice table setting and muffin basket.”
Owen gave the cheerfully printed linens a mistrustful frown. “Those aren’t mine. I don’t even recognize them.”
“Miss O’Neill gave them to us last Christmas,” Élodie piped up. “Remember? You said the bright colors made you feel queasy.”
Queasy. Ugh. Unhappily reminded of her own recent bouts of travel sickness, Daisy considered how she’d felt since arriving in Morrow Creek. She’d fainted at the train depot, it was true—but she’d been under enormous strain at the time. Since then, it occurred to her, she hadn’t experienced a single instance of nausea. Perhaps, despite Owen’s suppositions about her “delicate condition,” she really had nothing to worry about. No sickness, no troubles…no baby whose father didn’t care a whit for Daisy.
But she couldn’t think about that now. With an efficacy born of long practice, Daisy turned her mind to something else—to someone else: Owen. Even after several hours in his company, she still wasn’t tired of gazing at him. The very sight of him filled her with fascination. He was so rugged, so masculine, so very present in every movement and gesture and thoughtfully voiced word. “I didn’t say that to Miss O’Neill at Christmastime,” he was saying now, in his own defense. He cast the vivid floral napkin a dour look. “I don’t need silly fripperies, that’s all.”
He might not “need” them, Daisy knew, but more than likely, he secretly enjoyed them. Who wouldn’t? Embellishing a household and caring for the people inside it were her favorite things to do—an expertise she’d gladly share with Owen and his daughter. Even though she’d prepared only one meal for them, she’d enjoyed it. She’d enjoyed having someone to pamper and fuss over.
“Attractive linens enliven the dining experience,” Daisy told Owen as she took her seat between him and Élodie. “A pleasant ambience aids in proper digestion and healthfulness.”
“So does agreeable conversation,” Élodie added, showing off the knowledge she’d gleaned during their lessons so far. “That means you should tell Daisy how nice everything looks, Papa.”
With an inexplicably curmudgeonly frown, Owen gazed at his daughter. Then he blinked. “Élodie, did you cut your hair?”
Élodie, caught in the midst of diligently copying the precise manner in which Daisy split and apple-buttered her buttermilk-spice muffin, nodded proudly. Her new forehead fringe bobbed above her eyebrows. “I used the sewing scissors!”
Owen gawked. “You cut your hair yourself?”
Another nod. Élodie cast Daisy an adoring look. “I wanted to look just like Daisy. And now I do!”
Owen’s thick dark brows drew together. He aimed a censorious glance at Daisy. This time, it was her turn to defend her good name. “I had nothing to do with it!” she said. “When I saw Élodie after I’d settled in, she’d already cut her hair.”
“I told you Papa wouldn’t notice for hours!” Élodie crowed.
“Yes. I guess you were right.” Amused by the little girl’s perspicacity when it came to her father’s observant nature—or lack thereof—Daisy tried, playfully, to push things further. “How long do you suppose it will be before he notices the collection of flowery bric-a-brac I arranged at the stable?”
Owen’s chair scraped back. “Flowery what? Where?”
Feeling better than she had in days, Daisy laughed. She reached to give Owen’s hand a tug, intending to draw him back to his place at the table…and instead found herself giving him a more lingering touch. Just as she had before, she squeezed Owen’s hand, then let her fingers dawdle awhile against his arm.
She shouldn’t have done it, Daisy knew. Not then, and not earlier today, either. But something about Owen emboldened her. He made her feel as though she could be herself with him. Owen was blunt but nonjudgmental; he was honorable. With him, there was no need to watch her every word or deed, the way she’d learned to do with Conrad. Before her speaking engagements tour had begun, Daisy recalled, she’d been an ordinary, high-spirited woman. After spending so much time alone with Conrad, though, she’d become a timid, fearful girl, relying too much on her tour manager to help her meet her obligations to Barker & Bowles.
Tonight, for the first time in months, she felt as though her usual womanly self was returning. But perhaps, Daisy decided as she looked at her pale hand nestled contentedly atop Owen’s sun-browned wrist, she’d become a little too comfortable here.
Owen already assumed she was having a baby out of wedlock—a thought Daisy could scarcely bring herself to consider. Did she truly need to add fuel to the fire by behaving so familiarly?
Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand. “I’m only teasing. Sit down and eat your dinner, won’t you? It’s getting cold.”
Grumbling, Owen did. For a little while, the only sounds were those of enjoyment as everyone tucked into their meals. The apple butter was passed; coffee was poured and drunk; sighs of enjoyment were released and gratefully savored by Daisy.
Owen had been very kind to her. Élodie was adorable. Daisy liked them both already. And as sh
e listened to Owen talk in his deep, thoughtful voice with Élodie about the merits of knitting versus embroidery, she felt strangely heartened by the two of them, too. Owen had raised Élodie on his own. And little Élodie seemed happy. Didn’t that prove that a child could thrive, even if she had only one parent to care for her and love her? If that were true, Daisy mused with a new sense of hopefulness, then maybe she didn’t need to be afraid.
Maybe she could admit the possibility that had been niggling in the back of her mind for weeks: that she was going to have a baby, and she could raise her child without Conrad.
Contemplatively, Daisy glanced at Owen. To her, he seemed brave and astute and resilient…if a little too somber. He seemed to bear the weight of his responsibilities capably and earnestly. He seemed to be a good man—the kind of man who’d take in a stranger on a moment’s notice…then make her feel welcome, even going so far as to invite her to live in sin at his house!
Will someone be…meeting you here, in Morrow Creek?
His earlier question still made Daisy’s ears burn. Owen had meant Conrad Parish, of course. He’d wondered if Conrad would be scandalously joining her here and helping her raise the baby Owen imagined Daisy was expecting to have.
The notion was unthinkable. Daisy didn’t love Conrad. She didn’t even miss him. As a point of fact, it had been a relief to comport herself according to her own wishes tonight. It had been fun to teach Élodie about sifting the flour twice to ensure airy muffins and about using a heavy cloth to shield her fingers from the hot cast-iron baking pans. Moreover, Daisy’s newfound autonomy seemed to have gone straight to her head! Dreamily, she considered what it might be like to touch Owen’s hand again—but he, apparently, didn’t harbor any such wistful yearnings.
Will someone be…meeting you here, in Morrow Creek?
She had to make it clear to him that she wasn’t promised to some other man, least of all to her erstwhile speaking-tour manager! As far as Daisy was concerned, Conrad could just move on to his new assignment with Astair Prestell and leave her be.
