by Kristin Holt
“Morning.” Rose’s grip was sure and strong, warm from the ceramic of his coffee cup and many long minutes near the fire in the dining room hearth.
“Morning.”
“Come for breakfast? Mrs. Ihnken makes mighty fine steak and eggs.”
“No. I came to see you.”
August lifted a brow in question.
Luke tossed the tickets onto the table. “It’s time you left town.”
The other man heard, naturally, but didn’t give much of a response. Luke hadn’t expected this to be easy, but neither had he expected August to take it so calmly.
Slowly, August’s storm-gray eyes hardened to granite. He took his chair with an insolence that made Luke’s hackles rise. Seconds ticked past on Mrs. Ihnken’s grandfather clock in the front parlor.
Luke ached to fill the silence with reasons, good and valid reasons why a gentleman would accept Effie’s refusal and board today’s train. He bit his tongue and waited. He knew a thing or two about tackling sticky subjects with men he didn’t like…managing the ranch had given him too much practice.
Finally, Rose set down his coffee cup, the barely audible clatter against saucer emphasizing his fine self-control. Luke’s estimation of the other man improved—though he didn’t like it.
“Time, you say.” August quirked one brow.
“Mrs. O’Leary has made her wishes known. Accept it and move on.”
Something like a smile ghosted across his mouth. “O’Leary, huh?”
Luke had the sudden urge to throw Mrs. Ihnken’s fine dining room chair across the table and clobber August Rose with it.
“I do believe,” August said evenly, “I know a great deal more ‘bout what my lady wants, as I’ve known Euphemia Scofield Carmichael since we were young.”
Carmichael?
Luke’s gut clenched. He fought to hide the visceral reaction, to tamp down the jumble of questions the loaded statement provoked. He thrashed every memory but came up empty. He’d never heard Effie use any other name—just O’Leary.
Obviously, August Rose knew that.
So she’d married an O’Leary since parting ways with Rose…who didn’t know she had.
Maybe.
What, exactly, was the man saying?
“If you intend to slander Mrs. O’Leary’s good name, persuade her to use that blasted train ticket you bought—”
“Hold your horses,” August interrupted. “You imply I’d spread falsehoods about my future wife.”
Luke’s temper flashed white-hot—future wife? “She refused you.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.”
Luke’s heart pounded at a fast gallop. Surely Effie had refused his proposal just like she’d refused to leave town.
All the clatter in the kitchen came to a sudden and evident halt. No doubt Mrs. Ihnken listened in, aware a tantalizing conversation transpired. She probably had an ear pressed to the door separating kitchen from dining room.
Luke chose his words with care, though he wanted to take August Rose outside and settle this with his fists. Luke’s fury had gathered enough steam he figured he could have the lawman trussed like a calf inside thirty seconds.
He drew a steadying breath. “Not five minutes ago, I heard her decision. She stays.” He pushed away from the ladder-back chair. “And you, Marshal, will be on the afternoon train back to wherever you came from. Alone.”
“That so?”
“Accept defeat like a man and go.”
“Can’t do that. Effie might need a little persuading, but I believe she’ll come around. I won’t leave until she agrees to accompany me.”
The taunt sliced close to home. Luke narrowed his gaze. “That’s not going to happen. She doesn’t love you, not anymore.”
“Maybe,” August said. “Maybe not. But she loved me deeply, not that long ago, and was eager to be my wife. It won’t take much to rekindle that tender affection.”
Chapter Four
Effie glanced at her timepiece. Forty five minutes remained until she needed to open the shop. Just enough time to cut out the yellow flannel set Hunter Kendall had ordered for his wife. The task would hopefully calm the racing thoughts Luke’s questions had caused.
He wanted to understand her behavior last night and this morning. He’d be back—soon, later, tomorrow, it didn’t matter. He would return. And he’d expect answers.
She’d just unrolled the fabric on her cutting table and reached for the pattern pieces when a knock sounded on her shop’s door.
Luke waved to her through the display window. Her shoulders sagged. She might as well get this over with.
She unlocked the door and ushered him inside. “You returned his tickets?”
He nodded as he removed his hat and unwound a thick, knitted scarf. His cheeks were pink from the wind. He pulled off his gloves and hung his coat on the peg on her back wall—as if he intended this conversation to take a while.
“I came to say what I should’ve said last Sunday or last October or anytime at all. I thought I had time. I thought we had time.”
His subject caught her off guard—she’d been prepared to explain her behavior since Gus arrived, not this…
“I’d intended to wait for your mourning to draw to a close, for your widow’s weeds to give way to gray or purple.”
Her pulse quickened. “Luke—”
He took a step closer, gestured for silence. She caught the scent of winter wind on his clothes, a hint of horse and man mingled and was so uniquely him.
“Let me finish. I don’t know how to put this in words, so I’m just going to say it. This past year and a half, every time I came for you for Sunday dinner at my parents’ table, every time I escorted you to Founder’s Day or took you on a drive, I was just biding my time, waiting to declare myself. I’m doing that now.”
His protectiveness last night made infinitely more sense. He hadn’t acted merely out of neighborly concern—he’d behaved like a beau. And somehow, she’d never suspected he’d taken interest in her. How had she not noticed?
He cupped her elbows, tugged ever so gently as if leading in a dance step, an invitation for an embrace. She hesitated—but how she wanted to. But allowing herself the comfort would convey entirely the wrong message.
Unmistakable honesty filled his hazel eyes. “You said you don’t like the idea of August Rose staying in town, that you’re not interested in marrying him. That’s good, because you captured my interest the moment you moved to Mountain Home, and I’ve not considered another woman since. I intend to win your heart.”
Emotion surged out of nowhere. She wanted to laugh—or maybe cry. She pressed four fingertips to her mouth to hide the trembling. She shook her head.
Why must two men challenge her resolve at the same time? True, Gus had been little temptation. But Luke’s interest was an entirely different matter. For him, she wanted to reconsider, and that scared her.
“Give me a chance here, Effie. I’m not asking you to marry me…yet. I intend to win your heart, bit by bit, thread by thread, until I own the masterpiece. Then I’ll ask you to be my wife.”
Stand firm, she commanded herself. The decision is made.
“Now that you know my intentions, I feel I have a right to ask what’s bothering you…and expect an answer.” His touch swept up her arms to her shoulders. “When I showed up here last night, you were anxious, worried, not yourself. I saw your fear, and it was a whole lot more than nervousness over a long-ago beau, far more than tiredness at the end of a trying day. Tell me.”
Her heart pounded and her mouth turned dry as a July afternoon.
She straightened and eased back from his gentle touch. Gentle fondness lit his remarkable hazel eyes. She basked in that warmth, knowing it wouldn’t last.
He wasn’t one to gossip and she couldn’t believe he’d hurt her by spreading a word of what she would share with him. He’d brought it up before leaving to return the train tickets to Gus. It wouldn’t be easy, but at least she was
prepared.
He must’ve seen the sadness sweeping over her, for he tipped her chin up with a gentle nudge of his knuckle. “You can tell me. I’ll help. Nothing is so bad we can’t get through it together.”
His kindness overwhelmed her. She turned away, wishing with all her heart things were different.
She knew him through and through. In the year and a half of friendship with him and his family she’d come to know his nature and temperament. He had no secrets—he’d be appalled by hers.
“I’m not who you think I am. I’ve done terrible, unforgivable things.”
She felt more than heard Luke draw close behind her. His hand settled on her shoulder. That quiet show of support and understanding poured into her as if she borrowed his strength. She felt no judgment from him—how was that possible?
“I married a man of my father’s choosing at age seventeen. I never loved him, my husband, and his cruelty turned my distaste for him to pure hatred.” Old memories surfaced, terrors she’d thought she’d put behind her. There’d been too much talk of Reuben Carmichael since Gus’s arrival.
The dark stains on her soul seemed as visible as mud on the hem of a skirt. “I hated him.”
Luke’s warm hand circled slowly between her shoulder blades, comforting, soothing. He waited, silently, but his acceptance was too much. How could he listen to the ugliness within her, and want to touch her?
“He locked me in my room. Starved me for days on end. Cut off my communication with parents, sister, and friends.” She’d never told a soul about the depravity within her marriage, and speaking of it now caused an odd disconnect…almost as if she spoke of someone else. “After one particularly difficult week, I struck him with a crystal vase. I’m not proud of it…I wanted to kill him.”
In the eyes of the law, intent mattered more than outcome.
She held perfectly still, expecting him to halt, gather his things, and let himself out. He wasn’t one to raise his voice at a woman, and certainly not his fists. But she knew he would not call on her again—there would be no courtship, and that was good…just what she wanted. He’d remove his little sister from her employ, and that would be that.
But he moved closer, until the warmth of his chest pressed against her back. His hands settled on her waist. The heat of his breath stirred the hairs at her left ear as he pressed a kiss to her temple.
Her heart leapt at the contact. His kiss communicated…forgiveness?
She crossed her arms and rested her hands upon Luke’s. She craved his embrace and the absolution he foolishly offered. “Do you understand now?”
“Hmm?”
“I believed Gus had come to arrest me, to stand trial for murder—at least attempted murder.”
He wrapped his arms about her middle, embracing her. “Seems that’s not why he came to Colorado.”
She found her head resting against his shoulder and cheek. She shouldn’t give in to him like this…but it felt too wonderful, like the comfort of relaxing into bed after a long day on her feet, yet immeasurably better.
She shouldn’t mislead him. She would pull away…after one more minute.
“Is this what you two talked about last night?” He snuggled her a little closer and encircled his arms about her waist.
“Yes. I believed he’d come to arrest me—I was wrong. He simply brought news. My parents passed away within a short while of one another. And that my husband did die—but not by my hand as I’d assumed. He died last winter.”
“I’m sorry about your parents.” He paused. “About the husband…that’s good.”
Suddenly, Effie needed to see Luke’s expression more than she needed his warmth and support. She turned, pulling free of his grasp easily, and searched his clear gaze.
Acceptance. Calm understanding. There must be more to it. It wasn’t possible—even for kindhearted Luke—that he took the news this well.
She didn’t deserve forgiveness. Or understanding.
“I lied to everyone in Mountain Home,” she pressed. “I lied to you.”
His dark brows pulled together. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. I passed myself off as a widow when in fact, I could’ve been a murderess—I believed myself to be a murderess. I was a runaway wife.”
He shrugged. “If you’d had another way out, you’d have taken it.”
“I lied about my name. I picked O’Leary from thin air. My name is Euphemia Eugenia Scofield Carmichael.”
“I know.”
What? Her jaw fell slack. “How? How do you know?”
“August told me. Just before I returned. I told him to leave town, and he retaliated with your full name, to substantiate his claim that he knows you better. He left out Eugenia.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, disappointed at Gus’s betrayal. How could he? Was he trying to discredit her so she’d leave with him?
“How are you not angry?” Reuben would’ve locked her in her room for three days, forbade the household help from unlocking the door for any reason.
He shrugged. “Should I be?”
“Yes. What man wouldn’t be furious to find a woman lied to him?”
“Your husband might have been that kind of man, Effie, but I assure you, I’m not. My father isn’t. Hunter isn’t. Compassionate men exist.”
“Not for me, they don’t. This is why I will never subject myself to a man’s control. I won’t marry. You deserve to know this.”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He brought his knuckles to her cheek, goose bumps rising in the wake of his feather-light touch. “Thanks for explaining yourself. It makes perfect sense that you avoid marriage because I’m not angry.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
He took his time lowering his head to kiss first one cheek and then the other.
“W-what are you doing?”
Despite the alarm clanging in her head, warning her to pull away, she desperately wanted to turn into his kiss, to seek his lips with her own. So very forward, so rash, but for the first time since she’ d been young and foolish and hiding her budding romance with Gus, she found herself wanting a man’s kiss.
This was dangerous—so very dangerous. It threatened her determination.
He eased back before she could act on the urge—probably best, given everything. He needed time to think things through. He’d come to his senses.
His callused thumb stroked the line of her jaw. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, Mrs. O’Leary, I heard you. I heard every word.”
“Good. I’m glad you understand courtship isn’t possible, that I will not marry again.”
“I understand. I also intend to change your mind.”
Anticipation tingled within her. She nearly groaned in frustration.
“All you need,” he soothed, “is the right man…and I aim to prove I am that man.”
“No. You’re wasting your time. I’m firm in my resolve—”
“I won’t push you into anything. But given everything you said, it’s only fair you know I’m firm in my resolve, Effie O’Leary—I aim to win your heart.”
“I can’t. I don’t have time.” Effie shifted the cotton flannel on her cutting block, set the pinking iron, and whacked it harder than necessary. “I have too much work to conscience taking the evening off.”
Gus’s lopsided smile had once won her over completely. Now it just irritated her, so she kept her focus on her task. She zipped through another six inches before he spoke.
“You’ve got to eat sometime.”
“I will eat.” Whack. “I’ll stop for a bite once I’m done with this process.”
He grabbed the mallet from her hand.
She squawked in protest. “Give that back.”
Nudging her out of the way, he set to work pinking the cut edge with astonishing accuracy. She couldn’t fault his skill.
He glanced at her. “I’m a man of many skills.”
She snagged Mayor Abbott’s suit coat from the stool an
d found needle and thread. She’d keep busy, dig into another waiting project. If she couldn’t persuade Gus to believe she didn’t have time to dine out with him tonight with words, then she’d show him with action.
She sat at her machine where the light was best and threaded a sewing needle. She whipped a basting stitch into the cap of the sleeve and watched Gus turn the nightgown’s front panel around and continued pinking the cut edge.
“I think a hot meal would do you good. I worry you’re not eating right.”
She glared at him.
He chuckled. “All you eat is bread and cold meat. What about vegetables? Potatoes and gravy?”
“If you haven’t noticed,” she told him, offering what she hoped was a stern expression, “I don’t live a life of ease, Mr. Rose. I haven’t a kitchen of my own nor time to cook so I eat simply.”
The rhythmic pounding of the mallet against pinking iron fell into an easy cadence. “Aren’t you hungry for good food?”
“No.” She decided to change the subject. “Where did you learn to pink that well?”
“Necessity, dear Effie. Necessity.”
“Did you work as a tailor’s assistant?”
He chuckled, dropping the finished panel onto the cutting table and picking up its companion. “Nope.”
“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”
“I will, over dinner. Put on your cloak. I’m starving.”
She thrust the needle in and out of the seam allowance in a precise running stitch. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“You’re grumpy.”
She glared at him, again.
He grinned, as if blind to her frustration. “You know, if you’d take an hour here and there for yourself, rest a bit throughout your work day, you wouldn’t be so stressed.”
“I don’t have the luxury of taking an hour off, not at this time of year. If I want to sleep seven or eight hours tonight, I have to put in a full day’s work.”
“If I help you, you’ll have time to break for dinner. Look, I’m already done with all these edges. Not a one will fray. Even and beautiful, too.” He swept the yellow scraps into a cupped hand and dropped them into the waste basket.
