Pleasance's First Love: A Six Brides for Six Gideons Novella (Book 3) (Grandma's Wedding Quilts 6)

by Kristin Holt

  “Pleasance Benton is Ann Robbins.” He shook his head, disgusted.

  She’d been in a constant state of pain since meeting Jake at the station. Now that pain swelled, sharpening, deepening. Resistance hurt. Rejection hurt.

  “What game are you playing, Ann?” He turned to her, power in his huge frame barely checked. Like that magnificent stallion he’d called Note—note, as in a musical note—Jacob Gideon was a man of strength and vitality.

  He wouldn’t hurt her—not physically.

  “No games.” She spoke softly, lowering her gaze. “I’m home for good.”

  “Home.” He shook his head. “The Running G is not your home.”

  His letters, over the past year, their correspondence courtship, said differently. He’d not only paid her fare, he’d invited her to stay in his home under the watchful eye of his housekeeper, to see if they’d suit. He’d gone so far as to say they’d be married as quickly as she found the idea palatable.

  She’d marry him today, now, at once, if doing so would reassure him.

  “Everything I own is in those trunks.”

  “It won’t work.” He shook his head again, so much like that powerful horse she couldn’t shake the comparison. If she were in the saddle, he’d have bucked her off by now.

  He didn’t want her.

  A tremendous, awful ache burned. Fire chewed at her resolve to see this through, to rebuild a new life with him from the ashes of the former.

  Was this how he’d felt when she’d left?

  She’d been traveling to something, not away from him. But he’d not understood.

  “Give me one good reason,” Jacob challenged, his voice low and menacing, “why I should let you stay.”

  The warm summer sun could do nothing to banish the sudden chill.

  His love letters had been matter of fact. A business transaction. Well then, she’d let this be a business transaction. “You want one good reason?”

  He’d braced his forearms on his knees, effectively blocking her out. He faced the road ahead, turned his head just enough to glare at her through narrowed eyes.

  He gave no reply.

  “You want one answer.” Love for this man, her man had never left her. He was hers, and it was high time he accepted that. “I’ll give you three.”

  He tensed.

  “One: every word I wrote was the bald truth and you chose me.” He’d said as much, in his letters. He’d had nearly twenty replies through the matrimonial agency he’d enlisted to find his bride. He’d selected her.

  “Second, you must marry to meet the bankers’ stipulations and secure the loan you need.” He’d written all about the ranch, his plans, and the roadblock in his way.

  He shook his head, rejecting her reasons.

  She wouldn’t let him gain the upper hand. She surged ahead, determined he would hear her reasons. “Most important of all,” she insisted, vehement, “the passion between us has not dimmed.”

  Without giving him a moment’s warning, she tossed herself into his arms. She would kiss him with all the longing four tortured years had inspired, and prove nothing had changed.

  She landed across his knee. As if by reflex, he caught her close.

  She fit in his arms perfectly. The first touch in four anguished years banished the chill. Heat engulfed her.

  Breath left his lungs. He moaned.

  Or maybe she had.

  Either way, one of them started the kiss—the fire and zest and love—all still there. She’d dreamed of him, wanted his kisses, missed him so desperately…

  This first reunion kiss was…amazing.

  The rasp of his beard awakened her senses. The fullness of his lips reminded her of every kiss, every touch, an entire history of courtship and love binding them together.

  He kissed her as if he were starving, and she, his only sustenance.

  She’d come home.

  His kiss intensified, deepened, made her forget—almost—they were in the open, in public. Anyone could witness this private, beautiful exchange.

  One kiss became five. His hands swept her back, and eventually settled upon her hips. She’d locked her arms about his neck early on, and she wished she’d removed her gloves. She wanted to feel the silk of his hair and heat of his skin.

  Gloves were such a nuisance.

  Jacob must have remembered they were in his wagon. On the side of the road to Leadville.

  He stopped kissing her, holding her, loving her.

  Reluctantly, she allowed him to set her aside. She shivered.

  Banked fire simmered in his familiar, beautiful eyes. Not blue, not green, not gray. Their own gloriously light-filled shade of wonderful. “I don’t trust you.”

  The powerful kisses had burned his anger to ash.

  “I know.” He wouldn’t trust her for a long while. She knew that. Just as she knew everything about this dear, wonderful man.

  He stared at the road ahead. “I don’t want to marry you.”

  She clutched. His kisses, the heat between them had reminded her of everything they’d once had, of the love brimming between them. Of their last fight—

  “I know.” She understood. Truly, she didn’t expect better. He’d written to Ann Robbins. He’d proposed marriage to Ann Robbins. He’d built a level of reserved trust, with Ann Robbins.

  If Ann weren’t she and she weren’t Ann, Pleasance would have known a fit of jealousy sharper than the day she’d received a letter from dear Mrs. O’Kane, telling her Jacob sought a catalog bride.

  She’d known in that moment what she must do.

  “I’m here to stay, Jacob. You sent for me, proposed marriage, and I agreed. I’m here to marry you.”

  Chapter Four

  June 1875

  Four years earlier…

  She’d met him, that summer evening, when the shadows had grown long and the oppressive summer heat had finally begun to give way.

  They’d pushed the limits of propriety, meeting like this. Mother had spoken to Pleasance, tears in her eyes, about the dangers to her reputation—and her future—if she continued to sneak out of the house to see Jacob.

  Even if their behavior was utterly innocent.

  So Mother and Mrs. O’Kane next door had devised a workable plan. They’d positioned a lawn swing in the shade of a large tree near the property boundaries between their gardens. Both Mother and Mrs. O’Kane could keep an eye on the courting pair through the windows.

  Because of the trees, gardens, and fences, most neighbors couldn’t see the lawn swing, much less know that Jacob and Pleasance had begun courting, because no neighbors saw him come to the front door. Why would he? They’d been neighbors and friends for ages.

  The arrangement suited Pleasance.

  Until that July evening, when she sensed their mothers’ gazes, and she wanted nothing more than to pace, rant, explain, and insist that Jacob, who claimed to love her, listen. Listen until he understood why she needed to sing with the same desperation that he saved every dime earned.

  He wanted to bring his dreams to fruition.

  So did she.

  Her musical talent was fundamentally different than his gift with horses, but that didn’t make her dream less valuable.

  But as Mother had cautioned, men expected women to find fulfillment in the home. Men wanted their mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters to embrace homemaking, childrearing, and make their homes and families the center of their lives.

  She’d tried to tell Jacob she wanted to do all that—for him and with him…

  Just not yet.

  Why couldn’t she have a few years to explore her dream? She had talent. At only eighteen, she had time. She’d received notice of a scholarship to study in Paris under Madame Etienne and Father had, at long last, agreed to let her go.

  Why couldn’t Jacob understand how much this meant?

  She shifted on the swing, out from under his arm, to look him in the eye. “I’ve learned everything the voice teachers in Denver can teac
h me.” She’d said so, multiple times.

  “You realize,” he answered without really listening, “women on stage are equated with the lowest classes. Men will assume you’re to be trifled with.”

  She glowered.

  “I’m not saying they’re right—it’s just the way the world is. Men view performers not as ladies, but as objects. Why would you subject yourself to that?”

  “I’ll make sure I have protection. A chaperone. Someone to safeguard me.”

  “I can’t be there. That someone won’t be me.”

  Why did that make him fret so? Whoever watched over her wouldn’t be a man. Madame Etienne’s people had promised the best of propriety.

  “God has given me a gift,” she insisted. “A talent. I want this opportunity. I want to sing.”

  He touched her face. Sadness lingered in his pale eyes, taking on more blue in the shade of the setting sun. “You can sing here. You can sing anytime you wish to. In the garden, in the church choir, as a soloist in church. You could sing to our babies.”

  He’d proposed marriage, time and time again. She’d said yes, to every offer, qualified with “when I return home.”

  Everyone complimented her voice, even Jacob. He’d been captivated by it, when she’d first sung a ballad for him in this very garden, several years ago. The summer Grandma Mary had been here, in fact. The summer she’d lost her heart to him.

  She’d sung and the few years’ difference in age had melted away. She hadn’t been a little girl any longer. He’d seen her as a young lady. A young lady vibrant with talent and unmistakably feminine.

  Did he resent sharing her talent with the world? “I want to perform. On stage. I can do that and remain chaste.”

  He nodded, but the sadness lingered in his eyes. He didn’t really believe that.

  As if she’d be sullied by association.

  As if that old-fashioned notion he spoke of were true. No matter how many times they discussed this, they never made progress. She’d never seen comprehension in his eyes. He understood everything else. Why wouldn’t he try to understand this?

  “Don’t you see?” Her voice rose. “Vocal music is for the young. If I don’t obtain a vocal education now, on scholarship, if I don’t seize this chance to hone my talent and to perform on stage—before marriage and family—I never will.” Control slipped. She shook. Her hands and body trembled. Tears threatened.

  She could have it all, if only he’d allow it.

  He blew out a long stream of air. As if weary, worn threadbare, and exhausted. Not from a long day training horses. This sigh was because of her—and the conversation he’d not wanted, the conversation that never reached a conclusion.

  “I don’t want you to go.” His expression revealed how much he’d miss her. “This whole thing—the schooling, the intense training, the performances—it is all so unnecessary.”

  As if he’d slapped her, she couldn’t have been more stunned.

  Unnecessary? Unnecessary?

  She gaped. A fish out of water, her mouth working but she couldn’t breathe.

  He must’ve taken her silence as his cue to speak.

  “I don’t want you on stage. I don’t want you displaying yourself for the pleasure of men.” He gestured broadly, as if she’d asked to join a circus, wear indecent clothing, swing from a high trapeze.

  Since when did opera equate with a circus act?

  She shook her head, denying his accusations.

  “You don’t understand men, Pleasance. You’re innocent. You don’t understand how men view female performers.”

  She understood all right. Mother had explained—and she’d been appalled. Horrified. Why wouldn’t Jacob understand that in the East, in cities like New York and Philadelphia, even more so in Europe, women took the stage as violinists, master cellists, guest altos and sopranos, and were treated with deference and respect, their talents enjoyed for the talent itself. Women performed with utmost dignity, modestly dressed, modestly presented—

  He did know. She’d told him, over and over again.

  Yet he insisted on assuming she’d sacrifice herself, forsake chastity to obtain the adulation of an audience.

  How could he think so little of her?

  She couldn’t sit beside him one minute longer. She shoved from the swing, her narrow, bustled skirt twisting on her slender form. She fought it back into position in a most undignified manner.

  “Do not presume I’m a woman of low character.” She refused to raise her voice. Tears burned behind her eyes but she would not let them fall.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Oh, yes you did.”

  He rubbed his eyes, obviously upset. Finally, he met her gaze and held it. “What is out there,” he gestured vaguely to everything that lay beyond the shady garden, “that you need more than me?”

  Again, he shocked her senseless.

  Why must he make it a contest? Why must he force her to choose?

  He stood, just beyond her reach. She wanted to scream at him, rant and rave and beg and plead. She wanted to offer him marriage, now, so he’d trust her to come home. Or beg him to wed her tonight. They’d find a way to afford his passage to Europe. He could attend her himself.

  Madame Etienne required an answer. Soon.

  “If you love me,” he stated with absolute conviction, “you’ll stay. You’ll want me more than useless, fanciful dreams.”

  She gasped in outrage. Pain lanced through her, white-hot and exquisite in its intensity. “Is that what you think? That my dreams, my desires, my needs are fanciful? Useless?”

  He set his jaw. Whatever tenderness had been in his eyes when he’d kissed her in greeting, not half an hour ago, had fled. He shrugged as if yes, that was precisely what he’d meant.

  “Is my dream to perform, on a decent, well-respected stage, somehow of less value than a man’s dream of attending university? Building bridges? Doctoring people?”

  “It’s a man’s job to build, to improve the world. Why don’t you want a woman’s job—to make a home? Why don’t you want to make a comfortable home…for me?”

  She growled with frustration and fury. This man—this pigheaded man—thought that’s all she was good for. Because she’d been born a female, she shouldn’t want to do anything more with her life.

  “Fanciful? You call my talent, my dreams fanciful.” She shook with anger, fairly vibrated with it. She couldn’t control herself, wasn’t sure she wanted to. “I’ll tell you what’s fanciful, Jacob Gideon. A dream, so wild and beyond reach it’s laughable.” Sarcasm tainted her words, the criticism implied. Mother would’ve been mortified at her utter disregard for propriety, decency, and kindness.

  But she was beyond caring.

  “Your ranch.” She gave both words their own moment on stage. “Your ranch—which you do not own, which you may never own. Property costs money, Jacob. Do you have a scholarship to attain your dream? Do you have someone so confident in your abilities that they’re handing you the opportunity to succeed?”

  They’d talked about his dreams, his desire to have a place of his own, a ranch where he could raise and train horses. A place they’d build together and leave to their children as an inheritance and legacy. Dreams she’d indulged and encouraged.

  What an utter waste of time.

  Her heart pumped sluggishly, and the pain in her chest became so exquisite she once more couldn’t breathe. If this is how life with Jacob Gideon would be, if this was how she’d feel, then leaving for Paris was undeniably the right thing to do. She’d given him chance after chance to understand, to see things from her point of view, to comprehend how much this mattered. She’d shown him they could have it all—she’d marry him in just a few years. She’d sing now, then be married to him for the rest of her life.

  And the stupid, foolish man wouldn’t allow her those two or three years.

  She shook her head, the fury gone, leaving behind a wasteland of disappointment.

  Love was a f
unny thing, she realized as they stared at each other in the gathering twilight. Intense and so alive one moment, and dying from fatal wounds the next.

  “Goodbye, Jacob.” She waited, held his gaze, knowing in her heart this would be the last time she’d see him.

  He clenched his fists at his sides, relaxed, clenched, relaxed.

  His jaw firmed, but he said nothing. He didn’t move. Seconds passed, and he seemed to look through her, rather than at her.

  “Goodbye.” She turned, and headed for home, her bustle swaying behind her. Already, the pain had lessened, lightened, leaving her free…

  She would sing!

  Chapter Five

  June 1879

  Present Day

  By the time Jacob arrived at the ranch with Pleasance and her belongings, he didn’t know what to think. Or what to do.

  The woman confused him. He alternately wanted to strangle her and kiss her senseless.

  The minute they’d pulled up to the house, everyone materialized out of the barn, bunkhouse, stables, smokehouse, and the new house. Seemed everybody wanted to meet the bride-to-be.

  Jacob had immediately passed off the task of hauling Pleasance’s possessions inside. Frances Deverick, his elder sister, who now earned her living keeping house at the Running G, was thrilled to see Pleasance, swept her into her arms and into the house. Fran would have “Ann” settled and feeling right at home inside the hour.

  Jacob needed air.

  He made his way back to the wagon, but instead of grabbing another trunk, he headed straight for the paddock. Only one man hadn’t come to greet the ranch’s new mistress—the one who’d already had the pleasure of her company.

  After all that jawing, Jacob hadn’t expected he’d want to talk more, especially about Pleasance, but he needed Tuck’s advice. Tuck had a level head and never steered Jacob wrong.

  Sure enough, he found Tuck working with the youngest filly, Sunny. With the patience of Methuselah, he had a gift with horses. Their instinctual trust made for a perfect match.

  Jake hooked a boot on the lower rung and watched. Tuck knew he’d come out to talk; he’d tie up the session when Sunny tired.