by Rosalyn West
Their wedding night.
Starla uncovered a number of fine pieces: chairs, a sofa, occasional tables. She continued through the room, investigating its contents not out of any degree of possessive interest but rather from nervousness.
He blundered on, eager to soothe her worries.
“There are three bedrooms upstairs. You can take any you like. The one in front is attached to a smaller one. I thought that might make a good nursery. But it’s up to you. I’ve got my things in the room down here in back. I’m not quite up to stairs yet.”
Apparently, it was something other than the sleeping arrangement bothering her.
“How did you get injured?”
The question caught him off guard. He smiled crookedly. “By not minding my own business.”
“Patrice said they owed you their lives. What did she mean by that?”
“She was exaggerating.”
“You said you’d always be honest with me.”
How could he skate around that blatant trap? He sighed.
“I helped them fend off a bunch of night riders planning to torch the Glade. When Reeve came back, there was a lot of talk that he’d had something to do with his half-brother’s death. It got a lot of folks excited and thinking of mischief. I got shot.”
He left out the rest: that Reeve had almost been hanged, that Patrice had nearly perished trying to save the Glade’s breeding stock from the flaming stables. That he’d been paralyzed and had nearly ended his own life in his despair. But Patrice had kept him hanging on, teasing him with an enticing image: that of her outrageously beautiful friend. Starla Fairfax.
And there was one more fact he’d hope not to have to share, except she already seemed to know it.
“Why didn’t you tell me my brother was involved?” There was no mistaking the edge to that demand. Dodge responded to it casually.
“I didn’t see the need.”
“You stand there on those crutches, married to his sister, and you say you don’t see the need?”
“I didn’t take it personally. It’s not like he came up behind me on the street and decided to blow my spine in half.”
Starla winced at that, then stated emphatically, “I love my brother.”
“I’m not asking you to change that on my account.”
Despite his calming words, she regarded him suspiciously. Her warning couldn’t have been clearer when she said, “I won’t let you come between us.”
“As long as you don’t figure you need to shoot me yourself to finish the job, that’s fair enough.”
He could see she didn’t believe him.
“What’s between you and me has nothing to do with your brother, Starla. Men do crazy things when they’re riding in a mob. He’s your family, and there’s nothing stronger than family.”
He paused, but she had nothing else to say. He knew of no other way to convince her.
“Why don’t you go on up and settle in while I take care of the horse? We can talk about this tomorrow, if you want to.”
When she continued to study him in silence, he read dismissal in what she didn’t say. Philosophically, he turned toward the door, pivoting on the tips of his crutches when he heard the rustle of her skirts behind him.
She stopped at his shoulder, her palm touching one side of his face as she stretched up to brush a brief kiss upon the other.
“Thank you, Dodge,” she whispered as softly as that kiss, then she was gone before he could react.
He stood in the hall, his mind spinning, his heart careening madly, his fingertips against the damp impression she’d left behind. After a moment, he drew a rattly breath and exhaled it noisily.
Reeve was right. He was crazy. What had he been thinking, to believe he could keep house with a woman like Starla Fairfax—Starla Dodge—and not get wound up in false hopes and heartache?
Things just might work out all right.
Starla curled up on the surprisingly comfortable bed and let her eyes close, locking out the sense of desperation that had nagged her thoughts night and day.
Hamilton Dodge. What a strange man. Practical and proper in one regard, yet surprisingly unpredictable the next. He’d promised she had nothing to fear from him, and she wanted to believe him. Several times she’d caught the too familiar flare of desire simmering in his dark stare. She’d been garnering those looks since she was nine years old. But instead of acting on those feelings, he kept them checked behind his nonthreatening smile. Trying to lull her suspicions, or genuinely trying to make her feel at ease?
He’d given her his name, this house, the run of his accounts, almost as if she were his wife in truth instead of just on paper. So far he’d demanded nothing in return. Maybe he wouldn’t, maybe he would, but she couldn’t afford to let down her guard.
Marriage wasn’t always a sanctuary. It could be its own kind of trap. The law of man bound her to the Northern stranger, but what law would bind him to his promises?
She heard the door open and shut downstairs and the halting shuffle of movement as her new husband neared the steps. Despite his promises, she held her breath suspended, listening, alerted to the first hint of sound that said he was attempting the stairs. Her heart began a mad beating. Their wedding night. She squeezed her eyes shut against memories of discomfort and degradation. Of harsh breath scorching her face and shame abrading her body.
Please keep your promises.
Then she heard him move on, the sound growing muffled as the distance increased. She sagged upon the mattress in trembly relief.
I want to trust you, Lieutenant Dodge.
She closed her eyes again, picturing his pleasant face, his dark, intelligent stare. Remembering the firm pressure of his hand engulfing hers as they’d confronted Patrice and Reeve with their intention of marrying. And the uneasy yearning that had come with the feel of his ring circling her finger.
I need to trust someone.
Chapter 7
“Now, this is a sight I never guessed I’d see.”
Starla turned, using a flour-dusted hand to push a lock of wayward hair from her eyes. She had no smile of greeting for her best friend. She was too hot, too frustrated.
“Laugh all you like, Patrice Sin—Garrett. I never thought anyone would ever want to marry me for my domestic skills.”
Patrice came through the back door into the small, sweltering kitchen. “I didn’t know you had any.”
“I don’t,” Starla grumbled, smashing the dough she’d been mercilessly kneading down on the floured board. She scowled as the powder puffed up and settled like locomotive ash all over the floor. “I’d be a gracious hostess and offer you a libation, but I don’t believe I have anything here.”
Patrice seemed unconcerned. “Where’s Dodge?”
“At the bank, I gather. He was gone when I woke up.”
“And he left you with instructions to bake bread?”
“No, not exactly. But he did say he wanted someone to keep his house and wash his shirts.” Starla shuddered expressively. “Laundry. Trice, I’ve never touched a soiled garment in my entire life except to drop it on the floor for someone else to take care of.”
Patrice smiled, not with the hoped for sympathy, but with a sad understanding. “Times have changed for us, haven’t they? How naive we once were, dreaming of having the whole county at our feet.”
“You do, Patrice. You have it all. The Glade, the man you love, a future.” Starla broke off and went back to the vicious manipulation of her dough. “I suppose you think that’s strange talk coming from a new bride and mother-to-be.”
Patrice slipped her hands over her friend’s, stilling their frantic motion. Starla didn’t look up right away, and when she did, her eyes were swimming with unshed tears. Her jaw was gripped against any further self-pitying words.
“I fought against a whole way of life to get what I have now,” Patrice began. “I made choices that broke my heart and betrayed those I loved. But I don’t regret any of it. And I no lon
ger cry over what used to be. I make do with what I have.”
Starla withdrew her hands and wiped them on her skirt, leaving great white splotches. “You think I’m silly and spoiled.” A statement, not an accusation.
“No. I know you too well ever to think that. But I will think badly of you if you don’t take a good look at what you have now and appreciate how lucky you are.”
She meant Dodge, of course. Starla wondered a bit jealously how the brash lieutenant had managed to win over her friend so quickly and completely. Probably the same way he’d gotten her to disregard her better judgment in taking him at his word. Because there was something innately honest about her banker husband, making her want to believe. A weakness that rubbed against her grain of sensibility. “Would I be trying to make bread if I didn’t appreciate him?”
“Appreciate him, or poison him?” Patrice examined the dry lump of dough and chuckled. “I fear this would be better suited as a fire brick.”
Starla threw up her floury hands, frustration cresting on a wave of inadequacy. “I have no talent for this charade. I’ve never cooked or cleaned or cared for another. I fear your friend has made a terrible bargain in taking me as a wife.”
Patrice embraced her anguished companion. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
“He’ll be so disappointed … not that I care, mind you.” Her tone toughened in her defense. “I didn’t promise him that he’d have an angel in the kitchen.”
“Dodge is a smart man. I’m sure he knew what he was getting.”
Starla made a doubtful noise and stepped back. She picked up the disastrous effort at baking and tossed it out. “If he was so smart, he’d have never given me another glance. He doesn’t know anything about me.”
“He’ll learn.”
Starla grew suddenly somber. “What if he doesn’t like what he discovers?”
“Don’t underestimate him, Starla. I have a feeling your husband can handle just about anything.”
Except the truth. Starla turned away to hide her apprehension.
“You can trust him, Starla.”
Again, that unfaltering confidence. Starla wished she could share it. But then, Patrice didn’t know everything there was to know, either. If she did, she wouldn’t make such a claim.
If she did, she might not have even come to see her.
She gave a slight start when Patrice touched her elbow to offer a piece of advice.
“Give it time, and give him a chance. I know you’ll both be good for each other.”
Starla said nothing. What good could she be to him? A woman carrying another man’s child. A woman filled with secrets too awful to expose. A woman with no skills beyond the ability to be a selfish, cunning survivor. Just like your mother. Her lips trembled, then firmed.
If those were her skills, then she would draw upon them. She would make this a home for herself and her child and for the man who’d provided it for them. She would do whatever was necessary to secure her place in this house, because in doing so, she would be safe. And because she wouldn’t make the same mistakes again, she would do it with her eyes wide open. She wouldn’t be blinded by trust.
She shook the flour from her skirt and smiled ruefully at her misguided efforts. She wasn’t making the most of the skills she had. She was a hostess, not a housemaid, and she wouldn’t confuse the two again.
“You must excuse me, Patrice. I have to clean up this mess and get my house in order. I refuse to give my husband a reason to be disappointed in his choice.”
“He won’t be, Star. And you won’t be, either.”
Starla took a determined breath. “He and I will become friends. I just have to get used to that abrasive voice.”
“Friends is a good start, but Starla, he’s going to want more than that eventually.”
She looked at her friend through eyes opaque as rough gems and said with a flat chill, “That’s all I can give him.”
Dodge looked up from his paperwork and stared, momentarily stunned speechless by the sight of his new bride standing at the doorway of the bank.
Though he hadn’t seen her before he’d left for work, she’d never been out of his thoughts. Which was why he was going over his misfigured accounts one more time. Just the memory of her flitting through a corner of his mind had a way of distracting the whole of it into daydreams. Images of how she must look stretched out on the bed in the upstairs of their house. Of her all tousled and rumpled from sleep.
The fact that those musings tightened a knot in his belly, but not below, created another, more sobering distraction.
But none of those fancies acted as strongly on his system as the reality of her at his door, carrying a large hamper that smelled suspiciously like lunch.
“Good morning.”
She smiled at his warm welcome and came inside. “Good afternoon,” she corrected. “I lost track of time myself while baking bread. I thought I’d bring you some lunch.”
He stared at her, trying to equate this cool picture of elegance with that of a woman standing at a hot stove, not quite managing that miracle. He pushed back his chair.
“I’m ready to take a break.” He moved aside all the tasks he hadn’t been able to concentrate on and focused on what preoccupied him.
She approached him with a confident poise that was too studied to be true. She was nervous around him. He could understand that, and it made her gesture all the more significant. Under his bemused gaze, she spread his dinner out before him as if setting the table for an honored guest. Touched and amazed, he murmured, “Did you do all this yourself?”
“You left so early this morning, I thought you’d be hungry.” She poured him lemonade, dished out a piping hot stew over fresh bread, then stood back, waiting for his reaction, the picture of a docile wife eager and able to serve.
With one taste, he knew the truth.
Only one place he knew of had gravy so rich and smooth. The meal hadn’t come from his home kitchen; it had been made at Sadie’s. He’d taken three meals a day there for several months, often enough to recognize the fare. He glanced up at Starla, who hovered anxiously at his elbow.
“How is everything?”
He swallowed and gave her a neutral smile. “It’s good.”
She beamed with self-congratulation, as if the effort had been hers alone. But in fairness, she’d never said she had cooked the food, only that she was responsible for bringing it to him. He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. Should whose kitchen it had been matter more than the gesture itself?
“I appreciate you thinking of me,” he said, without looking up. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Then I surprised you. Good. I’ve heard a good marriage is made on surprises.”
He studied her features, unmoved by her flirtatious manner. “A good marriage is made on lots of things. Any in particular you’d care to discuss?”
She blushed prettily, but beneath that coquettish shock was a deeper alarm. She forced a smile. “I’ve no great experience in marriages, good or bad. You’ll have to enlighten me. I’m sure you’re a font of knowledge.”
Her tone prickled with impertinence, but it was a way to divert him from her original statement. He was already beginning to recognize her tactics. What kind of family had she grown up in? He didn’t know anything about them, other than that Starla didn’t want to visit her home, and her brother was a dangerous piece of business. Time to do a little reconnoitering. He was a fair tactician himself.
“I know your father owns the distillery, but I’ve never heard anything about your mother.”
Starla fidgeted with the papers on his desk, compulsively straightening them into a flawlessly even stack. “I wouldn’t know what to tell you. She’s been gone since I was five and Tyler was nine.”
That surprised him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know your mother had died.”
She looked up, meeting his regretful stare without a blink. “I don’t know if she has or hasn’t. When I said gone, I meant left. I h
ave no idea what happened to her or where she is.”
He never expected to hear anything like that. He didn’t know what to say to her, but he at least retained the presence of mind to shut his sagging jaw. Five years old. A baby. How could a woman—a mother!—abandon her children at such a tender age? He didn’t ask, but she must have seen the question in his expression. He wasn’t very good at hiding his thoughts.
Starla went on with a casual shrug. “My daddy was too busy building his business to pay us much mind, and we were pretty much left to our own devices with our maid, Tilly, to keep us from running wild. So you see, Lieutenant, what I know of family, I learned peeking through other folks’ doors.”
The want to express his shock and outrage nearly blocked out reason, but somehow he kept from doing the unforgivable and embarrassing her further. Instead, he waved a negligent hand. “I have enough family for both of us. I believe I mentioned my six older sisters, all but one married, supplying me with a crop of nieces and nephews. When we get together, you can’t take a step without tripping over someone.”
He might have imagined her delicate shudder.
“Is your father a banker, too?” She almost sounded interested. That was a start.
“No. He builds furniture. He was disappointed that I didn’t choose to carry on the family business, and they’d about given up hope of me ever carrying on the family name.”
His words came out with a tang of bitterness as unplanned as it was unwise. He scrambled to recover from the blunder of pressing her to provide.
“They’ll be thrilled to learn a new Dodge is on the way.”
Starla went alarmingly still. The hand that wore his ring pressed unbidden to her still flat middle. She spoke in a colorless monotone. “But my child won’t be a Dodge except in name.”
It was his turn to react with a defensive agitation. “Well, that may be the best they’re ever going to get.”
Starla wasn’t sure how to interpret his sudden flash of temper. Was he angry because they were trying to foist an illegitimate baby off as his own? That hurt. She winced for both herself and her unborn child.
