His Forbidden Bride (The Brides of Paradise Ranch (Spicy Version) Book 7)

by Merry Farmer

“Is everything all right, sweetheart?” he asked. It was one thing to be concerned for his business, but concern for his wife opened up places in his heart that he hadn’t known existed. “Honoria?”

  “Hmm?” She popped out of her thoughts, lifting her brow as she met his eye. She shook her head. “Oh. I’m just worried about everything going on.”

  Solomon sent her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t let it worry you too much. The whole point of the two of us being together is so that you can have peace and happiness, not strain and strife while…” He let the rest go. There was no reason to upset her—or himself—by reminding them that as close as they were to the beginning, everything would soon come to an end.

  Honoria did her best to smile in return. “I’m less worried than I was.”

  Solomon wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he took another gulp of coffee. Honoria had run off in a fury the other day, when the men from the WSGA were vandalizing his bank in the name of their investigation. She’d made no secret of the fact that she’d been out to her father’s ranch and had had words with him, but instinct told him there was something more.

  “Luke was telling me last night that he hasn’t seen a single suspicious person loitering near the house or the bank for the past few days,” he told Honoria, hoping that bit of information would prove that whatever she’d said to her father had been effective.

  “I’m glad.” She smiled, but her gaze was fixed on her plate—or rather on the white handkerchief next to her plate—once more.

  Solomon frowned. He set his coffee aside and went about finishing his breakfast. What had Honoria so…distracted? She wasn’t upset like she’d been the other day at the bank. There was something more, as if she was working out a puzzle in her head. Strangely, he thought her handkerchief had something to do with it.

  A terrible thought hit him. He swallowed and made himself ask, “Are you feeling well?” She’d been so energetic and fiery since their wedding day—at night especially—but it would do him no good to pretend that this fit of melancholy wasn’t related to her illness. What if she was beginning to feel poorly at last?

  She took too long to reply. In fact, she only looked up at him when the silence between them went on long enough for her to realize he’d asked her a question.

  “Fine, fine,” she answered, then frowned, more puzzled than ever.

  Solomon chewed a bite of bacon. “Maybe as soon as this foolish investigation into my bank is over we should take a vacation. I hear the seaside is good for those suffering from…lung problems.” He couldn’t bring himself to call her illness what it was. Consumption had too much finality to it.

  Honoria sent him a sad, wary look. “It might be difficult for us to travel anywhere outside of Haskell. There aren’t many other places I can think of where we would be accepted as married.”

  He hated that. He should have considered it before agreeing to marry her. It was the reason he had held off speaking his heart to her for so long in the first place. But instead of addressing the bitter issue directly, he feigned resignation and tapped the pile of telegrams beside his place. “There’s a fair chance we don’t actually have the money to go away either.”

  “Is there?” She seemed to focus more, her expression deeply concerned for him.

  Solomon shrugged. “I’ve had to liquidate more than half of my investments to meet the demands of the ranchers and local workers who keep coming in insisting on withdrawing their money. There have been three Western Union deliveries already. That leaves less and less in terms of profits that I can call my own…our own.”

  “But the flood of people coming in has to stop eventually,” Honoria reasoned. “My father’s reach isn’t that long.”

  “It only has to be long enough to—”

  He was interrupted by a loud knock on the front door. Both Solomon and Honoria jerked straight in their chairs and turned to the hall. A second knock sounded. Solomon glanced to Honoria, then stood and strode into the hall.

  One of the porters from Gunn’s hotel waited on his front porch.

  “Can I help you?” Solomon asked as Honoria came up behind him to see what the fuss was.

  The porter swallowed. “Sorry, sir. Mr. Eastman wanted me to hand-deliver this to you.”

  Solomon’s heart sank as the porter handed a simple scrap of folded paper to him. He nodded to the young man, who nodded in return, then headed on his way. Solomon turned back into the house, unfolding the paper to read.

  “What does it say?” Honoria asked as she shut the door.

  Solomon sighed. “The WSGA contingent has finished their investigation. They’re demanding my presence at the hotel immediately to hear what they’ve determined.”

  Honoria wrung her hands, looking pale. Her expression betrayed that she had no more confidence that the WSGA men would to come to a fair conclusion than he had. “What do we do?”

  “We go to the hotel and hear what they have to say,” Solomon answered. “It’s the only thing we can do.”

  A sort of resigned calm came over Honoria. She smoothed her hands on her skirt, then said, “Then we’d better clean up breakfast and get over there.”

  The two of them worked in tandem to clean up the dishes and leftovers from breakfast as fast as possible. Solomon finished his coffee as he worked, figuring he would probably need it. Once everything at their house was in order, he took Honoria’s arm and escorted her out to Station Street and up to the hotel.

  It was a possible stroke of luck that they crossed paths with Howard as they reached the top of Main Street.

  “Good morning, Mr. Templesmith, Mrs. Templesmith.” Howard greeted them with all his usual bombast. His wide smile faltered as soon as he saw the serious expressions both Solomon and Honoria wore. “What is it?”

  “The WSGA have completed their investigation,” Solomon answered, strangely glad to have someone to tell. “I’ve been summoned like some medieval serf to hear their conclusions.”

  Howard’s frown darkened. “I’m coming with you.”

  A small part of Solomon thought he should argue, that he should face this firing squad alone, but Howard had as much right to hear what these interlopers had to say about the bank in his town as anyone.

  The hotel was its usual calm, orderly self when they crossed the threshold into the lobby. Gunn was waiting for them and came out from behind the front desk to meet them in the middle of the room.

  “They demanded I set them up in one of the private parlors as if this was some kind of inquisition,” he grumbled. “I would have ignored their request but for the fact that I assumed you’d want to deal with this in private.”

  “Thank you, Gunn.” Solomon nodded to the man, his other staunchest ally. “We already know that whatever they say is going to be bad, so it might as well be said where other ears can’t hear it. Show me the way.”

  Gunn held out his arm, gesturing to one of the side halls off of the lobby. Solomon exchanged another look with Honoria before following him. It was strange to him how he had always prided himself on being stalwart and immovable on his own, but in the scant two weeks since Honoria had been by his side, he felt immeasurably stronger. He would give up his entire banking business and every cent he had if he could only keep her by his side forever.

  Gunn stopped in front of a door at the far end of the hall and knocked to announce their presence, then opened the door. As he did, Solomon shifted so that he held Honoria’s hand instead of escorting her.

  “They’re here,” Gunn said, preceding them into the room.

  “They?” Lamb blurted just as Solomon and Honoria stepped in.

  The four WSGA men had set themselves up at a long table at one end of the room, like judges on a bench. They had been smoking long enough to make the air in the room thick. Solomon was instantly more concerned for Honoria’s lungs than anything else, but she seemed to take it in good stride. Where judges would have stacks of books on the table to back up their findings, the only thing on th
e WSGA table—besides Eastman’s feet—was a single piece of paper in front of O’Brien. The whole thing instantly put Solomon on edge.

  But before he could say anything or demand the men share their results then leave, Howard barreled into the room.

  “What nonsense are you blackguards up to now?” he demanded.

  Solomon thought about letting Howard know it was all right, he didn’t need to start a war on his behalf, but the shocked looks on the WSGA men’s faces kept his mouth shut. He settled into a comfortable stance, squeezing Honoria’s hand and wondering what Howard would do next.

  “This is a private meeting,” Eastman said, dropping his feet from the table and sitting up straighter.

  “This is a witch-hunt,” Howard corrected him.

  “It is a sanctioned investigation by the Wyoming Stock Growers Association that has been initiated based on the evidence of one of its foremost members.” O’Brien sniffed with all the arrogance of a bean-counting bureaucrat.

  “Foremost members?” Howard boomed. “Rex Bonneville is nothing more than an ass. No, he’s the pimple on a particularly round ass.” Solomon nearly choked, especially when Howard flinched and turned to Honoria to say, “Terribly sorry, Mrs. Templesmith.”

  “No, no.” Honoria couldn’t hide her grin. “At the moment, I’m forced to agree that that’s an apt description of my father.”

  “You should be grateful that your father is trying to get you out of the shameful position you’ve landed yourself in, young lady,” Lamb snapped.

  “I beg your pardon?” Howard roared.

  Honoria held up a hand. It was a simple gesture, but Howard looked chastised and took a step back.

  “My father does not understand my decision nor the position I am in,” she said, facing the men behind the table boldly. Solomon’s chest swelled with pride.

  “Poppycock.” Lamb snorted. “It’s a disgrace to see a woman like you debasing yourself for a man like him.”

  “Because I am white and he is black?” Honoria raised her voice. When none of the men answered immediately, she went on with, “This is not 1850, gentlemen. Men of color are no longer enslaved. It’s 1876, the centennial of a nation founded on ideals of liberty and equality, and it’s high time you realize that a man’s appearance or birth are no indication of his character or their ability to excel in life.”

  “Here, here!” Howard cheered her.

  “Radical nonsense!” Lamb shouted.

  “Blasphemy!” Eastman agreed. “Though we should expect no better coming from the feeble mind of a woman.” He leaned across the table, narrowing his eyes at Honoria. “They never should have given you people the vote in this state. Mark my words, we’ll fix that mistake in a few years! If this isn’t raw evidence of your inability to think and your rash and imbecilic temperament, then I don’t know what is. You need a real husband to take you in hand and beat this impertinence out of you.”

  “I revise my opinion, gentlemen.” O’Brien tilted his nose up as if both Honoria and Solomon stank. “These two…things deserve each other.”

  An odd mix of emotion pounded through Solomon. On the one hand, he could have beat all three men into a bloody pulp for insulting Honoria. On the other, he couldn’t have agreed with them more. He and Honoria were meant to be together. They were a matched set, a perfect union.

  And when she died she would take a part of him with her.

  The fourth man at the table, Chalmers, who had so far sat there looking increasingly embarrassed, cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, perhaps we should get to our findings and conclude this interview as quickly as possible.”

  The other three sneered at him but settled into their chairs. Solomon nodded shortly to Chalmers in thanks, but Chalmers refused to look at him. The man wasn’t an enemy, but like far too many others, he wasn’t going to lift a finger to help if it put him in a bad position with the bigger bullies in the schoolyard.

  O’Brien picked up the paper in front of him and read, “It is the conclusion of the investigating committee of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association that Mr. Solomon Templesmith is in violation of several banking standards, as laid out by the National Banking Act of 1863, including failure to keep adequate records, failure to comply with solubility standards, and failure to provide the necessary information to the investigating authorities.”

  “Solomon provided every one of those things to you,” Honoria protested. “You were the ones who destroyed and mangled his records, and as to your solubility standards—”

  Solomon squeezed Honoria’s hand, prompting her to take a breath instead of railing on. He could have shouted and raged enough to bring the hotel down around them at the unfairness of it all, but experience had taught him it would do no good. There was nothing he could do to stop the tide from coming in, but if he was clever, he could make himself a boat to get over and past it.

  O’Brien stared down his nose at Honoria and her interruption as though she was a swollen tick he’d found on a dog. He cleared his throat and went on. “Therefore, this committee has determined that if sufficient funds are not provided for any and every customer wishing to withdraw their funds from this sub-par institution, legal action shall be taken.”

  “Though we won’t necessarily have to get the law involved in meting out punishment,” Eastman added in an ominous growl.

  “This is outrageous,” Howard bellowed. “I will not have you threatening citizens of my town.”

  “Also,” O’Brien added before the others could get into any sort of confrontation with Howard, “the WSGA is imposing a fine on Mr. Templesmith in the amount of five thousand dollars.” He set the paper down with a smug grin. “Payable immediately.”

  “What?” Howard gasped.

  Solomon clenched his jaw, fighting with everything he had not to give the men behind the table the reaction they wanted. It would only make things worse if he lost his temper, justifiably or not. At least the materials he needed for that boat he’d use to rise above the tide were there. Enough money to cover the ridiculous fine would be arriving on the train that morning.

  “Is that all?” he asked, his voice low and dark.

  The WSGA men lost some of their swagger. They exchanged looks with each other. Eastman and Lamb looked furious that they hadn’t gotten to lash out and put Solomon down the way they had Honoria. Chalmers refused to look at the others, appearing as though he might be sick. Only O’Brien maintained a poker face as stony as Solomon’s. “That’s all,” he said.

  Solomon nodded. “I’ll go get your money.” He turned to go, resting a hand on Honoria’s back to bring her with him. These men may have won the battle, but they wouldn’t win the war.

  Honoria was beside herself with grief and frustration by the time she and Solomon, Howard and Mr. Gunn, made it back to the lobby. She understood and admired Solomon’s stoic way of handling the situation, but the whole thing was so wrong, so infuriating, to begin with. And to impose such a mind-boggling fine? She was certain they had made it up solely to break Solomon.

  “I can scrape together a little extra cash from my holdings in Ohio and Pennsylvania,” Howard said as soon as they were in a quiet corner of the lobby.

  “You’re always welcome to borrow from me,” Gunn added. “Although I’ll have to liquidate a few more assets to provide enough for the fine.”

  “No.” Solomon shook his head. “I have cash coming via Western Union on today’s train. It will be enough.”

  Honoria practically shook with fury over it all. Fury led to a coughing fit the likes of which she hadn’t had in days. A coughing fit that squeezed her lungs but didn’t produce a single fleck of blood. She frowned.

  “Mrs. Templesmith, would you like a glass of water?” Gunn asked, ever considerate.

  His tiny offer of kindness broke some of the tension in Honoria’s soul. “Yes, please.”

  Gunn smiled. “Here.” He offered Honoria his arm.

  Honoria sent Solomon a weary smile, then took Gunn’s arm and
walked across the lobby with him as Solomon and Howard continued their conversation with Solomon saying, “This is going to severely drain my assets.”

  Honoria squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trusting Gunn to guide her. This was her fault. Like it or not, as beautiful as everything else was, none of this would be happening to Solomon if it wasn’t for her, if it wasn’t for her illness. He was suffering for her.

  “I’m certain you will both weather this storm.” Gunn shook her out of her thoughts as they reached the door to the restaurant. He waved for one of the wait staff to bring a glass of water. “Solomon is as tough as he is refined.”

  “Yes, and I am an albatross around his neck,” Honoria sighed.

  “Don’t say that.” Gunn turned to face her, holding on to her hands. “You’re a remarkable young lady who has given him a reason to fight.”

  She couldn’t help but smile weakly. “You’re kind to say so, Mr. Gunn, but at the end of the day, I don’t want to be the cause of his ruin. None of this would be happening if not for me.”

  The waiter brought a clear glass of water to Gunn, who handed it to Honoria, then nodded for the worker to give them some space. Honoria was surprised by how refreshing a simple glass of cold water was right then. She was surprised that it didn’t send her into a another coughing fit, that the entire sorry meeting hadn’t doubled her over. Or perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that it made her suspicious.

  For the last few days, she hadn’t been able to get one tiny thing Bonnie had said to her as she was leaving her father’s ranch out of her head. Consumptives were supposed to cough blood. Not once, not even when her attacks had been at their worst, had she seen so much as a speck of blood. On top of that, she couldn’t remember ever feeling as whole and healthy—at least physically—in the last two weeks. She needed to find out if Dr. Meyers had returned from his business with the Cheyenne and ask for more details about the usual progress of her disease.

  Gunn waited until she had refreshed herself before taking the glass from her, setting it on a side table, and going on with, “This is hardly your fault, Honoria. Ignorant, spiteful men don’t need much to use as an excuse to attack the people they despise on principle. There are many who have resented Solomon’s success for years now.”