A Marriage By Chance

by Carolyn Davidson

  “Did you mean it about going to town today, making arrangements?”

  She whirled on him. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Her eyes were dark, stormy with an irritation he could not understand.

  “When do you want to go?” Choosing the side of discretion, rather than pushing her into an argument, he watched guardedly as she folded the trousers she held. Her hands trembled and, as if she would hide them from his scrutiny, she buried her fingers in the denim fabric and turned away, facing the window.

  Enough was enough, J.T. decided. Something was awry and he’d best make repairs right here and now. His strides were long as he circled the end of the bed and reached for her. Her shoulders seemed narrow in his hands, her head tucking beneath his chin as he drew her against his chest.

  “What’s wrong?” She jerked against his grip and he tightened his hold, refusing to allow her escape. “Changed your mind, sweetheart?” The words were husky, almost harsh, and she stiffened. “I won’t let you, Chloe,” he warned her. “We’re gonna get married, and we’re heading for town after dinner to make the arrangements. You’re gonna have a new dress and I’m ready to spring for a suit, so I’ll look worthy of you, all gussied up and pretty as a picture.”

  “I’ll never be that,” she whispered.

  “I suspect you’re entitled to your own viewpoint,” he said quietly, “but I see things differently. And when we find you the right gown to wear and get me some Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, we’ll set this town on its ear. You’ll be the prettiest bride for miles around, Chloe.”

  “I have freckles,” she said despondently. “They’re not just on my face, J.T.”

  “And you think I care?” he asked, resisting the urge to grin at her confession. “I happen to like your sunspots.” His voice lowered, and she tilted her head, as if she strained to hear his words. “I’m planning on kissing every one of them, come tomorrow night.”

  She jerked from him and spun to face him, her cheeks rosy, her eyes ablaze. “I thought I made it clear—”

  His mouth found hers, and her words sputtered against his lips. Lips that claimed her decisively, branding her with the heat of his mouth, taking possession of flesh suddenly forming to his purpose. His arms circled her, drawing her against his hard body, and she was lifted from the floor, her feet left dangling as her hands sought for purchase, fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt.

  He’d kissed her before. Kisses that had brought him to a state of arousal, yet he’d been careful not to press too far. He’d tasted her mouth, suckled on her lips, and heard sweet sounds of her passion. She’d shed some of her thorns, awakening to a knowledge of her own needs. Now she invited the intimacy of his touch as she moved against his needy frame.

  His good sense began to surface as his hands lowered her to the floor. Unless he was careful, he’d have her across that wide bed, tasting the flesh that pressed against his chest, the warm, round breasts tempting his hands and mouth even now.

  Right in front of an open bedroom door.

  She stretched upward, and a murmur of protest escaped her lips, as though loath to call a halt to his foray. Her mouth was moist, opening beneath his, her lips flowering to accept his tongue, and he groaned, a sound of desire he could not repress. His common sense prevailed as once more the open bedroom door invaded his thoughts, and he turned his face from her seeking lips. “Chloe, I—”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Pete’s voice, vehement in its censure, halted J.T.’s own attempt to withdraw from the woman he held. He felt her hands drop from his chest, heard the intake of her breath as she lifted dazed eyes to his. And then Pete was behind him, grasping rudely at J.T.’s shirt, muttering threats in an undertone.

  “Enough.” The single, harsh word was a censure even Pete was smart enough to take heed of, and as J.T. turned to face him, the younger man’s hands dropped to his sides. “Don’t ever interfere between your sister and me again. Do you hear me?”

  Pete was grim-lipped, his gaze darting to Chloe who stood beside J.T. “It looked to me like you were taking advantage of her,” he said tersely, stepping back a pace.

  “What happens between us is none of your concern,” J.T. said, his voice controlled, as though he had forced the words between gritted teeth. And perhaps he had, he thought, clutching at his anger as it would have exploded through his tightly clenched fists. “The next time you lay your hands on me, you won’t know what hit you.” It was a promise, and Pete’s face colored darkly as he nodded.

  “What do you want in here, Pete?” Chloe’s query was hushed and she stepped past J.T. quickly, a living barrier between the two men whose hostility was tinder waiting to burst into the flame of open conflict. “Do you need to talk to me?” she asked, urging Pete toward the door. He obliged, giving way to her coaxing, and she shot a warning glance at J.T., her mouth still damp from his kiss, her hair ruffled from his touch.

  He let her go, his body caught in the twin grip of anger and desire, and as she vanished from sight, he turned back to face the window. Self-control, that virtue he’d counted as one he owned, was on the verge of shattering. Damn, he’d come too close to forgetting everything else surrounding him, once Chloe’s curving body was in his grasp. Letting any woman, even Chloe, rule his passions was not to be considered.

  He looked around the room, where her clothing was scattered from bed to dresser, and he bent to pick up the trousers she’d been folding. He lifted them to his face, inhaling the scent of wind and laundry soap, with a faint residue of Chloe’s own aroma rising from the fabric. Folding them, he placed them on the bed.

  Tomorrow he’d be here, in this room, his own things neatly arrayed where Chloe decreed they would be stored. And the door would be closed.

  The mirror reflected her image, and yet it was that of a woman she’d never laid eyes on before. Her gaze wide and fearful, she touched a curl that dangled beside her ear, and watched as it wrapped around her finger. She turned to view her profile, twisting her head to note the clinging fabric that outlined her figure. Cheeks flushed and eyes shiny with anticipation, she looked almost pretty, she decided. And breathed a prayer of thankfulness that J.T. need not be ashamed of his bride.

  From the doorway a snort of derision broke into her thoughts with the impact of an iron skillet hitting the floor. “I didn’t think you’d go through with it. Matter of fact, I thought you were pulling my leg,” Pete said bluntly.

  She opened her eyes and watched him as he sauntered closer, his eyes scanning her form with a chill scrutiny. “If you’re marrying that crook to keep me in line, don’t bother. He’s nothing but a big bully, and I’m not afraid of him.”

  That wasn’t how it looked yesterday. Chloe lifted her chin in exasperation. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Pete. J.T. has taken over here and relieved me of a whole slew of responsibility. He’s put his money into stock and he works damn hard, right alongside the other men. If you’d been half as interested in the ranch as he is, I wouldn’t be marrying anybody today. We’d have been partners and none of this would have come about.”

  Pete sneered, his angry gaze raking her lush form. “I see he got you into a dress for the occasion. I’d say the man has a powerful lot of influence over you, sister dear.”

  A flush warmed her face and throat as Chloe looked down at her wedding gown, her joyous moments of pride vanquished by his words. “I’m a woman, Pete. I wanted to look nice on my wedding day,” she said in a strained whisper. Not that she would ever be a raving beauty, but the creamy silk dress J.T. had chosen from the single ladies’ wear shop in Ripsaw Creek caressed her curves as though it had been made to fit each and every one of them.

  Sylvia Madison, the local seamstress, had managed to take in the waist and let out the bust yesterday afternoon in a matter of two hours, ecstatic at being called upon to alter Chloe’s gown. “I declare,” she’d said enthusiastically, “I sure had high hopes for you getting yourself a decent man, girl, but this one is beyond fi
rst-rate. He’s a choice specimen, if you ask me.”

  And though she hadn’t asked anyone’s opinion of J.T., Chloe had preened as she listened to Sylvia’s incessant chattering. Not that the woman was much of a judge of manhood, her own husband being short, squat and unappealing. But perhaps that made her more aware of a choice specimen, such as J. T. Flannery.

  Sylvia’s needle had flown as she stitched the last seam, and then shook out the yards of fabric, watching as the sunlight through the window brought to life the shimmering silk, the material rippling and flowing as though it were alive. “All right, Chloe,” she’d said, “let’s try this on for size.”

  And Chloe had, struck dumb by the vision staring back from the mirror as she turned from one side to the other, admiring the softly draping fabric.

  Now, she faced her brother, withdrawing almost visibly from the scornful look he tossed in her direction. “I’m marrying J.T. because I want to, Pete. I want a family and a man to sit across the breakfast table from me every morning of my life. A partner who’ll put me first and play fair with me.” As he had yesterday in town, when they’d signed a final agreement of partnership under Paul Taylor’s instruction.

  Pete’s lips tightened. “And you think Flannery’s going to do that?” he asked disbelievingly. “More likely he’ll sell off your stock and leave you empty-handed one of these days, once he’s tired of playing mister nice guy.”

  “Oh? The way you did? Leaving me without one red cent between me and a stack of bills to pay?” The hurtful words sputtered from her mouth without ceasing as Pete’s face turned crimson and his hands formed fists against his hips.

  “I only took what was mine,” he blurted defensively.

  “You took it all, every last penny out of the bank,” Chloe spat, “and if I hadn’t hidden the mortgage money, you’d have had that too.”

  “Well, if I didn’t feel needed here to keep an eye on things, and look out for you, I’d be down the road again,” Pete said.

  Chloe’s eyes filled with tears as she listened to his words. “Why can’t you just be my brother, Pete, the way you used to be when we were young? Just do your work, draw your pay, and get along with J.T. and try to make a go of it here.”

  Pete’s feet shuffled against the braided rug as Chloe stepped closer, and his arms were reluctant as she drew him into an embrace. “Maybe I’ll try, Sis,” he allowed quietly. “I want you to be happy. I just don’t think Flannery is the man for you.”

  Chloe lifted her chin and set her mouth firmly. “Well, this is the choice I’ve made, and I’d appreciate it if you’d accept the fact.” Softening her ultimatum with a smile, she lifted on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Now, come on,” she coaxed. “Remember? You’re going to give me away.”

  His shrug was unenthusiastic, but he walked beside her down the staircase to the front hallway, offering his arm as they entered the parlor. The room was almost filled to overflowing with neighboring ranchers and their wives, plus an assortment of townsfolk from Ripsaw Creek. The minister stood before the open windows, small black book in hand as he watched brother and sister enter through the double doorway.

  “Ah, here’s the bride,” he said in greeting. “And Mr. Flannery,” he added, looking across the room to the dining room doorway where J.T. and Hogan stood, poised to step forward at the appropriate moment. The piano resounded with melodious strains providing a sedate march tempo and the minister lifted both hands as a signal. Keeping time with the music, Chloe paced across the parlor floor, noting the approach of her groom, with Hogan by his side. Tilly stepped forward from the front row of those watching the proceedings, to stand at Chloe’s left side. The minister cleared his throat, opening his book and peering down at the words he sought.

  “Dearly beloved…” His gaze swept the onlookers, then focused on Chloe and J.T., a small smile curving his lips. “We are gathered together to join this man, and this woman, in the state of holy matrimony.”

  Pete shuffled a bit, clearing his throat when the next words were spoken, offering him an opportunity to call a halt to the ceremony. Chloe glanced up at him in warning, and his mouth tightened as he looked at her searchingly.

  “Who giveth this woman…” the minister began, and before the words could be fully spoken, Pete muttered the appropriate response and pressed Chloe’s hand into J.T.’s palm. His resentment was a palpable thing as he stepped back. Chloe felt a pang of sorrow, a sense of foreboding filling her for a moment. And then, upon the next utterance to leave the minister’s mouth, she was caught up in the beauty of words and phrases that promised to change her life forever.

  She spoke her responses in a voice that barely trembled, heard J.T.’s own vows offered in dark, husky tones and felt the cool circle of gold surround her ring finger as he placed it there. His kiss was circumspect, brief, but warm against her mouth. His lips touched her cheek and then whispered words against her ear.

  “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”

  It was over then, and the guests descended upon them, congratulations being bestowed upon the bride and groom. As grown men slapped each other on the back and made an issue of saluting the bride with brief kisses, J.T. was deluged by the ladies of the community, their eager words welcoming him to the social circle of Ripsaw Creek.

  Not that there was any great amount of entertainment offered in town, Chloe thought, watching as he was surrounded by young and old ladies alike. Only an occasional dance at the Grange Hall or a church ice cream social. And then, of course, the Fourth of July to-do, which involved a great number of children waving flags, towing bunting-draped wagons as they followed the band down the middle of Main Street.

  And this year she would be among the ladies who sat and cheered their husbands on to victory as the men chose sides for the annual ball game in Robbie Wilson’s pasture just outside of town. She envisioned herself sitting beneath a tree, surrounded by other wives as she watched J.T. hit the ball and then run the bases.

  “Can you play baseball?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper as she lifted on tiptoe to breathe her query against his ear.

  “Baseball?” he asked, surprise widening his eyes as he looked down at her. “Did you just ask me if I can play ball?” His own words were soft, as if he could not believe what he had heard from her lips.

  She nodded impatiently. “You’ll have to take part in the game after the Fourth of July parade. I just wondered…” Her words trailed off as J.T.’s smile exploded into laughter.

  “And you didn’t want to be ashamed of me in case I couldn’t smack the ball a country mile, I suppose,” he said with glee painting his features. “Are you afraid I’ll make a display of myself, Mrs. Flannery? Strike out first time at bat?”

  Her blush brought the gaze of several bystanders to her face, and Tilly bustled her way through the crowd, thrusting her jaw forward as she faced J.T. “Are you runnin’ off at the mouth, making poor Chloe all red-faced here?”

  “No, Tilly, he’s not,” Chloe said quickly. “I just spoke before I thought and it tickled his funny bone.” And how her mind could have traveled so far afield on such an occasion was a wonder, she thought. But, she’d found herself placing J.T. in any number of situations during the past couple of days, imagining him sitting beside her in church, strolling down the street in town on a Saturday afternoon or evening. And even wondering how he would look in the big bed she slept in every night.

  Especially picturing that, she thought, as the forbidden image invaded her mind again. She hadn’t been able to visualize such a thing clearly, not until yesterday’s kisses had given her a fuller glimpse of his passion. But in just a few hours the idea would become a reality. And she’d best be prepared.

  Being prepared evidently required a great deal of cotton and lace in the form of a voluminous nightgown that Tilly offered as her contribution to the effort. And then there were the last-minute instructions from J.T. himself, his bold whisper requesting that she remove the pins and curls from her hair and allow it to
flow freely. She felt the tension running through her body as she searched her mirror, her brush tangling in dark tresses as trembling fingers sought to bring order to hair suddenly prone to waving, no matter her attempts to bring it under control.

  All due to Tilly’s patient hands rolling and pinning in place a myriad assortment of curls, caught at Chloe’s crown by a small wreath of wildflowers from which it cascaded to the middle of her back. And now she tried in vain to bring some sort of order to the tangled locks before J.T. said his last goodbyes to the men who lingered on.

  Gone were the townsfolk, weary from three hours of dancing to the sound of Howie Henderson’s fiddle, the echo of their goodbyes still ringing in her ears. Now, only the ranch hands remained, armed with a suspicious-looking gallon jug and an assortment of cups.

  From the laughter beyond her window, Chloe felt safe in assuming it would be a while before her bridegroom showed up to claim his prize. And at that thought she dropped her brush and sat on the floor before the full length mirror, a rosy-faced creature amid a billowing cloud of fabric.

  Some prize, she thought derisively, mocking her own ordinary looks with a scrunching up of eyes and drawing down of her expressive mouth. Beneath the all-enveloping nightgown she wore was the untried body of a woman who hadn’t explored the idea of providing for the needs of a husband. Needs she hadn’t planned on considering any time soon. Her idea of holding him at bay until she was ready for their marriage to truly begin seemed to have fallen apart.

  He’d made his presence known last night, carrying his belongings down the stairs and tucking them away in the drawer she indicated. Hanging his new shirts in the wardrobe and placing new trousers in the drawer had only been the beginning. His small clothes, those items he wore next to his skin, shared space now with her own, and she recalled the moment he’d brushed his fingers over her drawers, handling the fine fabric of her shifts and touching the small bits of lace that trimmed her vests.