An Improper Proposal

by Spencer, Davalynn

  “They are serving roast beef tonight. Nothing special, I’m afraid, after living on a cattle ranch.” His near smile melted against the edge of his water glass as the waiter stopped at their table, a linen cloth draped over one arm.

  “Would you care for wine this evening, sir?”

  “No, thank you. Water will do. Coffee with dessert.” Evidently, Cade was familiar with the formalities of dining out—more acquainted than she—another surprise to his character that she would not have equated with the spurs and chaps he’d left at the ranch.

  “As you wish, sir.” The man bowed slightly at the waist. “Ma’am.” Then he left them to an uneasy silence.

  Mae Ann moved her reticle drawstring to her left wrist and positioned the bag in her lap. She glanced at other couples seated in the lavishly furnished room, envious not of the women’s fine gowns, but of their gaiety and subtle touches of fingers across tables.

  She forced a pleasant tone. “You have been here before?”

  Candlelight from their table reflected in his dark eyes, and his mouth twitched, tightening the cord that held her to him. “My parents came here often when Betsy and I were young. It was our mother’s desire that we learn the ‘finer graces,’ as she put it.” He tasted his water again, and his deeply tanned hand rested starkly against the white linen tablecloth.

  Indeed, he had slipped into a finer-grace mode, and she longed for his rougher cowboy ways. She felt a bit out of place in the elegant room, in his mannered company. The ranch house kitchen and their chairs by the fire appealed to her much more.

  The meal was as delicious as Cade’s attentions, and she found herself relaxing at last, warming to this side of her husband that she had never known. A fine custard followed the beef, vegetables, and gravy, with coffee served from a silver decanter, but in spite of her desire to enjoy the evening as long as possible, her eyelids warred against her.

  “You’re tired.”

  The gentleness of his voice pricked her conscience and stiffened her back as if he’d caught her doing something brazen. Like falling helplessly in love. She tucked her linen napkin beneath her plate. “The ride here, I suppose.”

  “And anticipation of what awaits you tomorrow.” He slid his hand across the table and folded it around her own. “Are you ready to go upstairs?”

  Her mouth opened, but her throat closed. She withdrew her fingers, clutched her reticule, and nodded before finding the weakest of all replies. “Thank you for the lovely meal.”

  He stood and assisted her with her chair, then again offered his arm. “Heavy for supper, but it will help us sleep well.”

  She glanced quickly at his face to find he meant just that and nothing untoward. The man was a gentleman to a fault. She sighed, relieved yet somehow disappointed.

  At the door to their room, she handed him the key.

  His mouth ticked on one side. “I knew you’d find it.”

  He stood aside for her to enter but did not follow. She faced him.

  “I need to check on the mare.” His eyes swept her from head to foot, his brows drawing down with the progression. “Lock the door.”

  It clicked softly closed at his hand, and she waited, pressing her ear against the polished wood. Did he stand on the other side awaiting her compliance? Feeling all of twelve, she stooped to peek through the keyhole and met his trousers there. She covered her mouth and turned the lock, and his footfall faded away.

  Unlike the lit hallway, the room was nearly black, for she’d not trimmed the lamp before she left. Flicking on the gas wall bracket, she squinted against the suddenly harsh light, but used it to locate the oil lamp she’d seen earlier. Yes, there on the dressing table, where Cade had earlier left the room key. He’d thought of everything.

  Except their unconventional sleeping arrangement. That blatant proposition fell completely on her own shoulders. She lit the lamp and lowered the flame, then turned off the gaslight before plopping onto the cushioned seat at the dressing table. The pins pulled easily from her hair and it fell unfettered. Freedom from restraint felt good, even if for only a moment. She brushed its length and dug the bristles into her scalp, loosening the road dust lingering there, then plaited it into a long queue.

  Retrieving her nightgown from the carpetbag, she fingered the blue ribbon trim at the neck and hesitated, uncertain if she could lie beneath the coverlet on this warm night in such a state of undress.

  Cade was her husband, but not really. He had made no advances toward her, other than his brief kiss at the old cottonwood. And it was she who had determined the conditions of their so-called marriage—If I do not appeal to you, we can live as man and wife in name only.

  Clearly, she did not appeal to him or he would not send her away.

  She returned her nightclothes to the bag, unbuttoned her shoes and discarded her stockings, then took two smaller cushions from the settee and laid them down the middle of the delightfully soft feather tick, her carpetbag at the foot. The whole idea was preposterous, but she didn’t know what else to do.

  Giving in to the lush lure of bed and pillow, she lay down on her half with not even an inch of space remaining because of the cushions. How would Cade manage in such a cramped arrangement, his arm in a sling?

  She rolled to her right side, her back against the cushions, one arm beneath her pillow. It would have to do. At least he’d not be folded onto the settee or stretched out on the hard floor, though the idea of stretching out proved a tempting one even in her state of weariness.

  ~

  The mare did not need checking, but Cade needed the walk to the livery to clear his thoughts, untangle his emotions, and convince himself that he couldn’t accompany Mae Ann to court tomorrow smelling as if he’d slept in a barn.

  On his way back, he inquired at the other hotel about a room. They had none.

  His boots echoed his pulse as he stomped through the ornate Stratford House entry and into the lobby. The clerk was gone. Given his current agitated state, the man’s absence was probably the Lord’s doing.

  He snorted. The second time that impression had crowded him.

  He took the stairs a mite slower to let the idea simmer. If God really was behind this whole business proposition of Mae Ann’s, then it was a whole lot more than Cade just showing up at the wrong place at the right time.

  But how was he supposed to keep her and keep her safe?

  At the third-floor landing, he dropped down on the stair and pulled the sling off his neck. The knot had worked him raw, and immobility made him stiffer by the day. It’d been more than a week since the ladder rungs had busted through, dropping him on his head. And it was his stewing over Mae Ann and MacGrath that sent him up there in the first place.

  The loft had been a favorite hideaway when he was a boy shirking chores. The old barn’s shady, hay-scented quiet cleared his mind. He could see better, get a different perspective, and rein in his thoughts. The top of the third-floor staircase didn’t have the same effect.

  He rubbed his neck and bent his head from side to side. Mae Ann had been the most beautiful woman in the dining room with her simple blue dress, softly curling hair, and gentle demeanor. And she was the most frustratingly stubborn and perfect embodiment of everything he’d imagined a wife should be.

  But her suggestion for sharing the bed scared him to death. He wasn’t as confident in his personal restraint as she was—a revelation that shamed and honored him all at the same time. A more trustworthy woman, aside from his mother, he’d never met. Nor one more trusting.

  Slowly, he extended his right arm, welcoming the movement. He bent it a couple of times and, convinced he was in good shape, reached up to grip the rail. A dagger pierced the joint, and sweat broke out on his forehead. Bad call.

  Rising carefully, he headed for their room. At the door, he drew the key from his vest pocket and turned it end over end. What kept a man from saying the things he wanted to, or pushed him to go against his heart in a matter?

  Sean MacGrath,
that’s what.

  As much as he didn’t want to send her away, he had to keep Mae Ann out of harm’s way. He’d vowed to keep her safe and he was a man of his word.

  Slipping the key in the lock, he listened for the metallic click, then eased the door open to a welcoming glow from the table lamp. He was glad she hadn’t left on the gaslight, but she had left on her blue dress and lay on the far side of the bed, shored up by gold brocade cushions and her carpetbag. He quietly closed the door and crossed to open the window for fresh air. Then he turned down the lamp, toed off his boots, and shed his vest and tie.

  Standing by the bed in his stockinged feet, he stared at the narrow shelf she’d left for him. She made not a sound—he couldn’t even hear her breathing. But if he felt the warmth of her through the tick, it would increase the ache in his chest far beyond the one in his shoulder.

  He turned away, picked up his boots, and went downstairs.

  ~

  The next morning, Cade’s neck screamed louder than his shoulder as he unfolded from the parlor chair and opened his eyes. He alone remained, the other patrons absent and in their comfortable beds. He plowed his hair back and headed for the stairs and his room.

  Mae Ann was gone.

  Disappointment chaffed him, and he crossed to the washbasin. Warm water filled the pitcher, and a fresh towel waited on the rack.

  Actions rarely lie.

  Without the need to shave, his morning ritual took much less time, and he hurried downstairs hoping to find her in the dining room. Their appointment with Judge Murphy was set for ten, and by the slant of sun through the lobby windows, it was still early. His pocket watch and the floor clock near the stairs confirmed his observation.

  She sat at the same table as the previous night, in the same chair, her profile facing him as she gazed out the window. Few patrons occupied the other tables this morning, and the distinct aroma of strong coffee stirred his appetite.

  He caught the waiter’s eye and indicated Mae Ann’s table. Adept at reading the guests’ wishes, the man filled the cup at the empty seat across from her. She turned to look over her shoulder.

  At first glance, her eyes lit with pleasure, but she masked them and turned to her coffee.

  “Good morning.” Cade took the chair facing her, amazed that she looked so fresh. Her brown suit looked fresh as well, and the matching excuse for a hat perched defiantly atop her upswept hair.

  “And to you.” A brow arched. “How is your shoulder?”

  Of course she knew. She wasn’t blind. “Not bad, considering.”

  She sipped her coffee and pinned him with a darted look. “Did you not sleep well?”

  Blast it all, he’d not be airing his personal battles over breakfast. “It was the forgetful raising of my arm that did the deed.” He adjusted the annoying knot. “The sooner I’m out of this rigging, the better I’ll like it.”

  Soundlessly, she set her cup in its matching saucer. “That seems a contradiction if the sling reminds you not to raise your arm.”

  He bit back a snort. As contradicting as his warring emotions—wanting her within reach but out of harm at the same time. He could not have it both ways. “Contradiction makes up a good deal of my life lately.”

  She dropped her gaze to the table, her hands to her lap. Her shoulders leveled and she pulled in a breath before raising her chin.

  “If the judge does not rule in my favor, and Henry’s farm goes to auction, will you make a bid?”

  His chest seized. “Would you like that?”

  Her chin rose another notch. “That is not what I asked.”

  “It is what I am asking. Do you want me to buy the farm if the judge puts it up for sale?”

  She blinked. Twice.

  He leaned slightly forward and lowered his voice. “Mae Ann, I want to know what you want.”

  Her beautiful eyes locked on his and drew him under, squeezing the air from his lungs.

  “I don’t want MacGrath to have it.”

  He fell against his chair back, stinging from her subtle dodge. “Neither do I, so I’ll do my best to get the farm. But I can’t promise anything. He is an unscrupulous man and may already have Judge Murphy in his pocket.”

  She blanched.

  He mentally kicked himself. “On the other hand, the judge may declare the will valid. In that case, the land is yours to do with as you see fit.”

  The waiter arrived with poached eggs on toast—the same fare he’d eaten with his parents a dozen years before. It appealed to him even less now than it had then.

  Mae Ann bowed her head, but before he could offer his hand for a unified prayer, she laid her napkin in her lap and cut into her egg. The yoke spread across her buttered toast like the uneasy dread that stained his heart.

  CHAPTER 21

  Court was held on the second floor of a Main Street saloon, and Mae Ann feared her rights and interests might flow away as easily as the liquor downstairs. It was a short walk to the establishment from their hotel, but the clerk, ever his smug self, assured them that the new courthouse would be constructed and open for business by this time next year.

  As if that would do her any good.

  The boardwalk was surprisingly crowded so early in the morning, which was due, no doubt, to the Founders’ Day celebration, and she clung tightly to Cade’s left arm lest they be separated in the crush. Bright bunting festooned every store window and door, inviting people to enter and browse collections of hardware, pastries, millinery, and cigars. An Oriental tea shop beckoned customers inside with spicy aromas pouring from its open door.

  At the saloon, an outside stairway ascended to the second floor, and Cade stopped at its base for her to precede him. Such as it was, the staircase was little more than a railing and slats fastened precariously against the brick building, and in no way mirrored the fine oak construction they enjoyed at the Stratford House. She glanced back, praying he did not crash through the rickety construction and fall again. His hat brim hid his features so she could not see if he was as nervous as she. Perhaps it was best she didn’t know.

  She paused on the brief landing for Cade to open the door—not that she was incapable, but she felt the gesture somehow honored him as her husband. In name only. Oh, for the peace Pastor Bittman had prayed upon them at their vows. Please, Lord. Shine Your face upon us.

  Her silent prayer had not risen past the door frame when her eyes landed upon a familiar figure standing against the back wall. Cade, too, caught sight of him, for his arm turned to stone beneath her fingers. Fear heightened her pulse at Sean MacGrath’s presence in the courtroom, though he’d told them he was contesting the will. Perhaps Cade was right, and the cattleman did have the judge in his pocket. She schooled her expression, determined not to linger on MacGrath or show alarm.

  Cade ignored their neighbor and led her to the front row of chairs arranged in an orderly fashion as if church were about to begin. An excessively large table served as the judge’s bench, she assumed, for it sat atop a small riser with a leather-padded chair behind it and a gavel and block on its polished surface. Another chair, not cushioned, sat on the floor to the right, and twelve smaller chairs made two rows against the outside wall.

  A door opposite opened and a bearded man in a long black coat entered, followed by another gentleman. Cade stood and she did as well. With a sharp knock of the gavel, the bearded man took the leather chair. “You may be seated.”

  She sat, clutching her reticule as if her life depended upon it, for it might.

  The judge looked through several papers he had brought with him, then peered down at Cade. “Would you be Mr. Parker?”

  Cade stood. “Yes, Your Honor. And this is my wife, Mae Ann Remington Parker.”

  Oh, Cade. This is futile! There is no Reiker in my name.

  “Do you have the will in question?”

  Mae Ann drew it from her reticule and handed it to Cade.

  “Ma’am.”

  She went still. The judge extended his hand. �
��You may approach the bench and bring the will. This proceeding involves your interests, not your husband’s.”

  Oh, Lord, a forward-thinking man. She glanced at Cade to find his regard warm and encouraging. A brief nod, and he sat down.

  The distance to the judge’s waiting hand proved a series of blows that struck her nerves with each step. As she handed him the paper, his scrutiny probed her very soul, leaving an unusual peace there. She thought immediately of Deacon and the way his old blue eyes missed nothing.

  She held herself squarely, refusing to tremble, and stood silently before the judge’s table. After reading for a moment, he glanced up and flicked his hand at her, brushing her away and back to her chair. Heat flooded her neck and face as she returned, humiliated that she did not know the proper protocol. Cade took her hand, enfolded it in his hard fingers, and held it possessively on his lap. The gesture threatened to charge a teary flood, and she blinked rapidly, staring at the fine needlework on her blue reticule.

  Judge Murphy read Henry’s stained and bullet-torn will three times, measured by the lift of his eyes from the bottom of the page to the top. She had never been so nervous in all her life. Usually she prided herself in her composure. A sin that goes before a fall? She knew the warning well, and though no such pride accompanied her today, she still feared she approached the edge of a precipice over which she soon might tumble.

  “Mrs. Parker.”

  The title drew her head up to meet the judge’s regard. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I will not readjourn this matter to this afternoon, but will announce my decision momentarily. However, I’d like to know if there is anything you care to add.”

  Her mouth dried to road dust. He wanted to hear her opinion—practically what Cade had asked the night before. She certainly had one, but dare she voice it in such a public place?

  “Mrs. Parker?”

  Cade squeezed her hand and whispered, “Go ahead, Mae Ann. You can do this.”

  Anchored by his apparent faith in her, she stood, gripping her reticule to her waist. “Your Honor, I believe Henry’s true wish was for the farm to be mine in the event of … his death.”