by Bella Bowen
But she’d never waltzed at home. Her pa claimed it was the devil's dance.
The horses twenty feet out from her, standing at the head of one of the carriages, murmured nervously. A shadowy figure moved to their heads to comfort them. Molly assumed it was the driver until the face turned toward her—a familiar face lit up from the lanterns hanging on the eaves of the town hall…
The face of John Brumley.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Easy, Molly,” her pa hissed.
“Stay where you are!” she hissed back. Her hand flew to the gun beneath her skirts, then her conscience made her recoil as if the metal had burned her fingers. What Christian woman would even consider shooting her own father?
“Good thinkin', child.” He looked nervously around the horses' heads. “You're being watched, sure.”
Yes. She was being watched. She needed to remember that. If the whole town watched over her in the daylight, surely a few folks still watched in the darkness, if only to glimpse the ladies and gentlemen when they came out after the dance was over. Likely, she only needed to stand up and wave her arms around and someone would come. But if she just sat still for a few minutes, Fontaine would be back.
“Don't you fret about that guard dog neither,” her pa said. “She'll be locked in the privy for a while.”
It didn't matter, she told herself. Others were watching. Were they also listening?
“What do you want?” she called out.
Her pa hissed. “Pipe down. I came to take you home. Nobody can fault you for leaving when they're expecting you to dance that devil's dance.”
The waltz played on behind her and he gave a nod to prove his point.
But that couldn't be the reason he'd come. He couldn’t have known they'd be playing waltzes. It could have taken him weeks to get there if he hadn't taken the train. And even if he had, the man had to have planned his trip days ago.
She took hold of the little porcelain arm in her pocket and pressed on. “What do you really want?”
Heaven help her, she'd all but called him a liar, but he wasn't close enough to punish her for it, and he didn't dare walk out into the circles of light cast by the lanterns. If he got a hold of her later, of course...
“I come to bring you home, child. I won't see these strangers break your heart. You know you ain't good enough for the likes of them. They just brought you here to make those other women look even prettier.”
If her eyes had been closed, she could have believed her pa had knocked her in the stomach with his fist, his words dealt her such a blow.
Wasn't she pretty? Hadn't she felt pretty enough to hold her own with the rest? At least until they got inside the hall?
Pa's words couldn't be true. But they felt true. After all, hadn't Mr. Craighton just looked past her like she wasn't even there? And what about that speech, when he'd walked her back to the hotel that she'd have still caught his eye even if she had nothing to do with Diamond Springs? Had Craighton been lying then?
But she also remembered looking into his eyes. He'd seemed quite sincere at the time.
“Molly.” Her father waved to get her attention again. “You know Stalton fancies you. He don't care if you're plain, and he don’t care that you’re cousins. If you really wanted to marry, you shoulda said so. You didn't need to come all this way just for folks to poke fun at you.”
Her stomach quivered at the suggestion. She realized her head was already shaking. She didn’t even need to consider his suggestion. Her entire body rebelled at the idea of returning within reach of her cousins. Within reach of her father. Father or not, she'd shoot John Brumley to keep that from happening.
She reached for the gun and stood. With both her hands, she was able to hold it somewhat steady in front of her.
“No, Pa. I'm not going back with you.”
The man straightened, let go of the bridal he'd been holding, and faced her full on. The horses shied back a step to get away from him.
He moved toward her slowly, making tiny movements he probably thought she was too stupid to notice. “Don't you wave no gun at me, Missy. Don't you forget you're my blood. And if I say you're comin', you're comin'. I let you have your little adventure, but it's over. Come now and I'll even let you keep the dress.”
She didn't have to go with him. Even if he was right and no man would have her, Mrs. Carnegie said she'd always have a home at the ranch. She never had to leave. And she didn't have to worry about John Brumley ever getting within striking distance again.
She thought of the little doll’s hand in her pocket—a reminder that her father would never allow her to have anything that made her happy. Not even the dress of her dreams. Besides, it would never fit beneath the loose floorboard in her room.
Her former room.
Now she had a lovely, spacious room with pink paint on the walls and a fancy carved wardrobe full of glorious things that had been made just for her.
“I'm sure you'd let me keep the dress,” she hollered, “so you could sell it as soon as I got it home.” She scoffed. “Go back to Mississippi, John Brumley. There is nothing for your here. You have no daughter.”
The man was furious. The whites showed all the way around his eyes and he measured the remaining distance between them.
Molly cocked the gun. But the funny thing was she heard the same noise echo from both the left and the right. She didn't look, though, and prayed to God that her cousins weren't about to shoot her.
“You heard the woman.”
Molly’s head jerked left. Samuel Craighton had a small revolver trained on her pa. She looked right and found that Fontaine hadn't had a problem escaping the privy.
“My cousins?” Molly asked her.
Fontaine shook her head. “Sheriff's got 'em.”
“That was quick.”
The woman shrugged. “Sheriff's always here on Wednesday nights.”
Molly turned back to her father, but her question was for Fontaine. “You didn't really need to go to the privy, did you?”
Fontaine just laughed. Once she sobered again, she asked Molly what she wanted done with the man from Mississippi.
“Send him home,” she said and finally lowered her gun. “Send them all home.”
Her pa started for her again. A shot rang out. Next to his foot, the dirt exploded and he stepped back.
“Pardon me,” Craighton said. “I was aiming for his knee.”
The older man snarled in his direction. “None of ya’ll’s good enough for my Molly.”
Craighton tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “But that's not what you told her, is it?”
Her father’s face twisted, furious to be caught in yet another lie. Then he lifted his chin. “Molly's never been full of herself. Ain't about to ruin her now.”
The doors flew open and Ellis Beauregard stepped out with a gun in each hand. He looked for Molly first, then noticed the other two with their guns still drawn. He tucked his own weapons away and hurried to her side.
“You all right?” He put an arm around her shoulders, looked at the gun hanging in her hand, but didn't try to take it away.
Molly took a deep breath and sighed. “I am, thank you.”
Fontaine waived her gun at her father. “I'll just take this one over to the jail. We'll see the three of them out of town in the morning.”
Molly did relax then, knowing that her father would be so upset he'd wasted good money to come for her that he'd never risk coming after her again.
She looked around Beauregard to thank Samuel Craighton, but he was already gone. The doorway was packed with the faces of a lot of concerned dancers, but they were called back inside by the intrepid voice of Mrs. Carnegie.
“I shouldn't have left you out here alone,” Beauregard said.
Molly shook her head. “I was never alone, sir.”
“Yeah. I guess that's true. Miss Fontaine’s a handy woman to have around. And the way that Craighton fellow kept peeking out the door, I'm not surprised
he was aware of the trouble.”
Her heart gave the tiniest flutter. Wouldn't it have been romantic if Craighton really had meant what he'd said the day before? But then why had he ignored her when he’d first come outside?
The man was just a mystery.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Samuel shadowed the female guard while she led the old man to the sheriff’s office. While he had faith in the woman's instincts, he didn't trust the bastard not to rush her. If he so much as turned, Samuel would squeeze his trigger without stopping to think about it.
He'd been shocked enough by the things the man had said to Molly. But when he realized he was her own father, he'd been seething mad. Frothing at the mouth mad. But young Molly hadn't faltered. She'd been as ready to pull the trigger as he'd been. Only she wouldn't have shot the man in anger, but to protect herself.
Which of them was lacking now?
The sheriff was ready and waiting by the time Fontaine and Brumley reached his door. The older man had gone willingly enough. And when the sheriff came back outside and headed for the town hall, the woman had stayed inside. Samuel figured she'd be safe enough with bars between them, so he headed back across the alley and into the hotel. He was too disgusted to go back to the dance—too disgusted with himself.
He'd lost her. Fool that he was, he'd tried to push her from his mind and choose another Diamond Springs Bride to set his sights on. The evening had begun well enough. It appeared the Brumley woman wasn't in attendance, so he hadn’t needed to worry about hurting her feelings. There had been eleven comely women to dance with, and he was careful to dance with them all, hoping that at least one of them would be suitable. And if God was merciful, she’d be memorable—the kind of woman who could fill his thoughts and leave no room for a gal in yellow.
But God wasn't on his side that night. The ladies were lovely. They were intelligent. They were charming. After dancing with four, he realized he could have chosen any of them and gone home with exactly what he’d come for.
Any of them.
Rosie would have gotten on with whichever he chose. He would have gotten on as well with either. They all knew how to cook and keep a house. They all knew what a Western rancher’s life required of them and were willing to oblige. But then the silliest inadequacy nagged its way into his head.
As he danced with the forth gal, he imagined himself coming in from the fields, coming in from the barn—or hobbling, tired and aching, from the corrals. He headed for the house watching for the woman who'd be watching for him, like he remembered his mother doing when his father was finished working for the day.
One at a time, he imagined each of the four standing on the porch, waving and smiling, but there was no urgency to reach any of them. There was no joy in his heart. No smile worth a long day’s work.
Of course he chided himself for being disappointed in a vision he, himself had created. But then he'd given that vision the final test. He'd imagined Molly Brumley standing behind the little white rail. She didn't wave. She barely smiled.
And his heart bounced up into his throat.
Those imaginary steps quickened.
Samuel shook off the vision and had held his own until the end of that dance. Then he excused himself. The punch hadn't done much for him, but the conversation he'd overheard next changed everything.
Mrs. Carnegie had explained to the tall Wyoming rancher that there was still another young lady he hadn't seen yet—the one who sat outside because she wasn't fond of dancing. And would he mind taking the girl a cup of punch?
If Samuel hadn't been a coward, he'd have picked up a cup and beat the other man to the door. But he'd frozen like a frightened rabbit. And by the time he drummed up the courage to go speak with her, it was too late. Then the rancher had made it clear that Molly was his, for the moment at least.
Samuel hadn't dared look at her. Surely she would be disappointed he hadn’t gone out to her sooner. Or maybe he was afraid of being tempted by her again. It wasn’t too late. There was still a chance he could resist her and keep the promise he’d made.
He didn't remember stepping back inside and was dancing with yet another woman before he knew it. The musicians played the opening strains of a waltz and he headed back toward one of the original four, to convince himself that she would do, when he noticed the sheriff speaking quietly to Mrs. Carnegie by the rear door. When the man pulled his gun before he stepped outside, Samuel knew there was trouble. And he'd be damned if he was going to waltz around the room while Molly sat outside where bullets were likely to fly.
He'd edged the door open and listened. He heard nothing. In the distance, there was a scuffle, but it could have come from any direction. He stepped outside, then stepped to his left and around the corner before the closing door could expose him. Then he listened again.
The old man’s whisper carried clearly in the night air. Molly didn't seem in immediate danger, so he remained where he was. After listening for only a moment, however, it took all his control to keep from rushing the man, taking him to the ground, and beating him senseless. What kind of man would say such a thing to any young woman? But to his own daughter?
Samuel’s disgust nearly shattered his control. The only thing that kept him from going after the bastard was the sound of Molly's calm voice. The foulness from her father's mouth hadn't touched her. The suggestion to marry her cousin hadn't reduced her to tears. She stood strong. But her strength had infuriated her father. So blinded by his anger, the old man hadn't noticed when Samuel stepped forward. He didn't notice the guns aimed at him, by Samuel or the female guard. And he hadn't been daunted by the gun his daughter used to hold him at bay.
John Brumley was a rabid dog that needed putting down, but it wasn't Samuel’s place to do so. The point was, Molly had the knowledge and the weapon to do it herself. How could he take that choice from her? Unless she was too tearful to protect herself.
But she hadn’t been. She’d been calm and steady when Samuel was sure she’d be falling to pieces.
When he'd finally been compelled to fire, he'd only been half-joking about aiming for the man's knee—he'd changed his mind at the last second when he realized Molly might feel obligated to take care of the bastard while he recovered.
He had to settle for the satisfaction of coming to her aid before the tall one had. He was sure she’d noticed.
What happened next was the part that turned his belly into a sick knot.
The way the tall one hurried to her, put his arm around her.
The way she hadn't minded.
It didn’t matter that Samuel had finally come to his senses. The Wyoming rancher had won in the end. And all that was left was to try and sleep until sunrise and head for home with his tail between his legs.
At least he hadn't told anyone where he was going, or what he'd planned to bring home with him. And none of his Mustard Seeds, back at Snow Creek, would be disappointed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
If Wednesdays at Diamond Springs Ranch were stimulating, Thursdays were doubly so. But instead of everyone bustling like busy birds preparing for the dance, on Thursday morning, Stoddard Hall was absolutely silent. Anticipation and trepidation made for a tense Thursday morning ritual because Thursday afternoon meant Tea and Mrs. Kennedy's hotel. Tea with the gentlemen.
It was Courting Day.
However, only Mrs. Carnegie knew who was going to be courted.
After breakfast, if anyone could manage eating at all, she would come around to the brides’ rooms and invite some of them to tea. If a woman wasn't invited, that meant none of the men had taken a fancy to her, and she'd have to wait another week to meet the next batch of possible suitors. But even if she were invited to tea, she wasn't told which man, or men, were hoping to sit beside her. She would simply have to wait and see, which Mrs. Carnegie believed would be a more natural, normal way to go about it.
After tea, if a couple was so inclined, they'd be allowed to take a stroll—with a gun-toting chaperon walkin
g a discreet distance behind.
That auspicious morning, breakfast was served as usual.
Molly took a piece of back bacon, a scoop of potatoes only the size of her thumb, and a plum. She told herself she only felt nauseated because her stomach was empty, so it would be foolish not to eat something at least. But there was also the fact that she hadn't been away from her father's table long enough to lose the habits she learned there. If she didn't take what food she could, when it was offered, she might not be offered much for a day or two.
Her stomach seemed to be the only one growling that morning. And as she ate, the others watched her.
“I envy you your appetite,” Sarah Lee said quietly.
“Are you too nervous to eat?” Molly asked.
Sarah took the napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “Aren't you?”
Molly laughed lightly. “No reason. I didn't dance with anyone.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Do you really think that makes a difference? They saw you didn't they?”
Molly nodded.
“Well, as far as I could tell, none of them were blind. I'm sure you'll be invited to tea.”
It was lucky for Molly she'd already eaten her meager breakfast before hearing such a thing. She couldn't imagine any of the gentlemen asking for her, but Sarah Lee's confidence started her worrying. She wasn't ready!
She might have been two days ago. She was a different person on Tuesday morning. Newly graduated and hopeful, she'd been looking forward to meeting a nice man and heading to the church, prepared to do her best as a wife and help mate. And if they grew to love each other, all the better.
But she wasn’t that girl anymore.
She’d allowed Samuel Craighton to get mixed up with her private little dreams and she couldn’t seem to remove him without pulling out pieces of those dreams along with him. It was like he’d been painted onto the canvas and she couldn’t get him off again. And with watercolors, she couldn’t simply cover him up or paint over him.
