Rocky Mountain Marriage

by Debra Lee Brown

  “Besides,” she said, less sure of herself now. She looked away. Down the hall he heard Delilah and a few of the girls whispering. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’m closing the place for good. You’ll have to be on your way.”

  “Now wait a second!” He jerked the door wide.

  She jumped, her hand flying off the knob as if it were cattle-brand hot. Her gaze washed over his body as he stepped, naked, into the hall.

  “Mr. Wellesley!” She spun on her heel and fled toward the spiral staircase.

  Delilah let out a laugh. The girls giggled. They were all in their dressing gowns and up too damned early for their own good.

  “Oh, Chaaance,” one of them, Lily, called from down the hall. She waved, and the girls continued to giggle. Delilah shooed them back as Dora hurried past.

  He watched, grinning, as she half stumbled down the staircase into the saloon. Ten minutes later he was dressed and chasing after her.

  “You’re not serious about this school idea?”

  She stood in the center of the saloon, hands on hips, surveying the place with narrowed eyes and a frown. Her brows pinched together as she turned a slow circle. At first he thought she was ignoring him. She wasn’t, he realized. She was thinking.

  “As serious as a boll weevil in a cotton field.” She jotted a few lines into her red leather-bound diary, then strode to the far end of the room.

  Chance followed. “What do you know about cotton fields?”

  She lifted the lid of Tom’s antique piano and peeked inside. “Nothing,” she said, distracted. “But I know a lot about running a school. Hmm…” She plucked a few of the piano wires, closed the lid, then inspected the adjacent stage. “This will do nicely.”

  “Do for what?”

  She turned to him and, for the first time since the incident upstairs, looked him squarely in the eyes. “For the children’s performances, of course.”

  “You mean you teach music?” He hadn’t pegged her for a music teacher.

  “I teach everything.” She cast him a dismissive look, then walked back to the center of the room. “Reading, composition, mathematics, science, drama and music. Oh, and Latin.”

  “Latin?” The instant he caught up with her she was off again. He dogged her steps. “Who besides scholars and bookworms speak Latin.”

  “Read, not speak. Those urchins I saw playing in the street yesterday could benefit nicely from it, I think.”

  Chance shook his head. “You’re not like any schoolteacher I ever met.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  He laughed. Not at what she said but the way she said it, as if she knew she was different and damned proud of it. “You’re set on closing the place, then?”

  “You don’t think I’d continue to operate a saloon?” She scribbled more notes into the diary, then scowled at the card tables in front of the bar. “We’ll need desks. Perhaps these can be modified.”

  “Why not? A woman like you’d do a damned fine job of it.”

  She turned on him, one blond brow lifted in astonishment. “You’re not serious?”

  “As a boll weevil in a—”

  “Honestly, Mr. Wellesley.” She capped her fountain pen and snapped the diary shut. They disappeared into the deep pocket of her dress.

  He reminded himself he wanted a look at that diary, but he’d have to wait until she was asleep. She carried it with her every waking moment.

  She did an about-face, snaked between the card tables toward the stage, and hurried through the doorway into the hall. Bill had turned one of the two first-floor bedrooms into his study. She paused at the door, looking in, then continued down the long corridor toward the kitchen.

  Chance knew he was in trouble. He had to convince her to keep the Flush open, to keep everybody working and the customers pouring in. If he didn’t, the past six months would have been for nothing. Six months of keeping his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut, biding his time, waiting for Bill’s partner to surface.

  “I know why you’re closing it,” he called after her. “And it’s not because you’re a schoolmarm shocked at the idea of owning a saloon.”

  “Schoolteacher,” she corrected. She grabbed her cloak off a peg by the back door and readied herself to go outside.

  He held the door for her, then followed her down the back steps. “A woman like you wouldn’t be bothered by what people would think.”

  “A woman like me.” She kept walking, past the row of cabins and the bunkhouse, toward the barns and corral.

  Rowdy and Gus, busy with morning chores, tipped their hats to her as she marched by.

  “A woman who’s smart, who knows her own mind.” He caught up with her and took her arm. She immediately pulled it away. “I like smart women.”

  “How fascinating.”

  He was losing her. He had to think of something, and fast. She skirted a pile of horse dung, rounded the corral and stopped at the edge of the meadow filling a long valley choked with spring wildflowers as far as the eye could see.

  She shaded her eyes from the early morning sun and looked out at the smattering of cattle, what remained of Wild Bill’s herd.

  “You’re afraid,” he said on impulse.

  “What?” She turned to look at him.

  “You heard me. You’re afraid.”

  “Of what?” Her spine stiffened.

  “Of everything.” He nodded toward the house. “The saloon, the customers, Delilah and the girls. Jim, Tom, the hired hands—” He glanced back at Rowdy and Gus who’d stopped their work and were watching. “And me.”

  “I most certainly am not!”

  “The ranch, too. It’s still a ranch, you know. A hundred head or so. Angus beef. Damned fine stock.”

  Her cheeks blazed, not with embarrassment this time, but anger. It bothered him that after only two days he knew her well enough to know the difference. The breeze caught a tendril of her hair, freed it from the tight little bun at the back of her head, and whipped it across her face.

  “John, er, Mr. Gardner told me the stock were worthless.” She looked out across the valley at the cattle as an excuse to stop looking at him.

  “Gardner’s an idiot. This was a profitable cattle ranch once. I can tell. With a couple thousand head and the right help, a man could really make something of himself here.” Without thinking, he crouched and plucked a handful of grass from the muddy ground, sifting it between his fingers as he gazed off into the distance. “Good water and sweet grass. It’s a choice piece of land, Dora. Believe me, I’d know.”

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He bit off a silent curse and abruptly stood, tossing the last few blades aside.

  “Would you?” Dora looked him up and down. “And what exactly would a man like you know about land and cattle ranching?”

  He froze, his gaze locked on hers. He’d gotten carried away, and the slip would cost him. Dora Fitzpatrick was no simpleton.

  “Just what is your history, Mr. Wellesley? No one seems to know.”

  Which was exactly how he wanted it.

  “Mr. Wellesley?” She looked at him strangely. Her gray eyes had gone soft, all tenderness and concern. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked at him like that.

  “I, uh…”

  “Were you a rancher before you went into…um, gambling?”

  He looked out over the rolling green pastures flecked with spring columbine and purple sage, and thought for a fleeting moment about the man he’d once been. Dora watched him closely, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she saw right through him.

  “No,” she said crisply, though the canny look in her eyes contradicted her verdict. “I didn’t think so.”

  He forced a smile and slipped easily into the pretense that had become as comfortable as a pair of old boots. She was not going to turn this around on him. He circled back to his original statement. “Trust me, you’re afraid.”

  She looked at him, and for a heartbeat he
saw in her eyes that he was right. An uncomfortable feeling gripped him. He sucked in a breath, sharp with the scents of cattle and sage and the barest hint of lilac. He hadn’t noticed before today that she wore perfume.

  “You don’t know me,” she said.

  “No, I don’t.” He thought about the life he’d had, rich and full of promise, before the unthinkable had happened eighteen months ago. What would he have thought of Dora Fitzpatrick then? “I don’t,” he said, “but I’d like to.”

  Chapter Four

  “I want that painting removed by the time I return from church.”

  “Whatever you say, Miss Dora.” Jim continued sweeping the broken glass, cigar butts and other evidence of the saloon’s profitable Saturday-night business into a tidy pile near the swinging double doors.

  Dora gazed at her reflection in the mirror above the bar and adjusted her hat. “I mean it, Jim. And I’d like you to lock the doors after I leave. The saloon is closed. No one’s to be admitted.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I know you think I’m being unreasonable. But I’m certain Tom and Delilah, and the…um, girls, can find decent jobs elsewhere.” She meant to retain Gus and Rowdy to take care of the place, and to help her with the conversion of the saloon into a school—if she could afford it. She wasn’t certain, yet, that she could.

  Jim hadn’t lied. Last night’s take, together with Friday’s, had been enough to pay the weekly salaries of the staff, in addition to one of the outstanding bills from a local merchant. She’d have to make arrangements to pay the rest of her father’s debts over time.

  Surely the town council would see things her way. Last Call was in desperate need of a school, and one less saloon could hardly matter. She was certain John Gardner would help her convince them, and Sunday services at the Methodist church in town was the perfect place to begin her campaign.

  “Are you ready?” Chance stood silhouetted in the entrance, morning sun at his back, casually twirling his watch fob.

  “Perhaps I should have asked you to lock the doors sooner,” she said to Jim.

  The bartender shot him a grin.

  “I’ve got the buckboard right out front.”

  Surely he didn’t think she was going to church with him? Did gamblers even go to church? She didn’t think so.

  Snatching her reticule off the bar, she walked toward him. “You’re supposed to be leaving today.” As an afterthought she checked her pocket to make certain her diary along with her father’s letter were tucked safely inside.

  “Not before church. Wouldn’t be proper, now would it?”

  She disregarded his open appraisal of her attire as she approached, then ducked neatly under his arm and out the door. She was seated on the buckboard, reins in hand, before he realized her intent.

  “Whoa!” he called as she snapped the reins.

  She didn’t stop, but she did look back at him. He was quite the gentleman in his Sunday best. If she didn’t know better, she’d peg him for a prominent businessman or cattle baron. He wore a three-piece suit she hadn’t seen before, his ever-present gun belt and a hat. She noticed his leather boots were polished to a high sheen.

  She also noticed that Silas was standing by, saddled and ready, munching new grass alongside the hitching post. She frowned, first at the horse, then at Chance. He smiled at her in return, much like the cat who ate the canary.

  What’s he up to now? Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to wait around to find out. It was already half past eight, and services began promptly at nine according to Jim. She urged the horses faster, and the buckboard rumbled down the road toward town.

  A quarter mile into the trip, the ranch house just out of sight, Dora jerked the reins as the left rear axle of the conveyance hit the ground with a thud. “Good Lord!” The buckboard had lost a wheel.

  A moment later the horses reared.

  Chance appeared out of nowhere on Silas, ready to offer assistance. He sprang from the paint gelding and quieted the spooked team. Silas shot her a bored look as Chance offered her his hand. “Let me help you down.” She was just about to take it, when he said, “Looks like you’ll have to let me escort you to church after all. We can ride double on Silas.”

  Truth dawned as she met his gaze.

  “I don’t think so.” Avoiding his proffered hand, she hopped to the ground and inspected both the axle and the wheel. She’d learned a thing or two about investigation from her mystery novels, and put her powers of observation to work.

  As she’d suspected, neither the axle nor the wheel had given way from any natural cause. The axle pin holding the wheel in place had simply been removed. Removed by Chance Wellesley.

  “You did this deliberately.”

  He cast her a look of pure innocence. “You don’t think I’d intentionally try to make you late for church, do you?”

  Oh, he was good, all right. Any troupe of players would be pleased to have him as their comic lead.

  “I do.” She kept her anger in check. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. “I am clueless, however, as to your motive.”

  He unhitched the horses from the buckboard, pointed them toward home, and gave them each a wallop while letting out a “Yee-ha!” that would rival any cowpuncher’s. The horses took off. “They know their way back. Rowdy’ll come looking for the buckboard once he sees them.”

  The man had no scruples. She was just about to dismiss him with a pithy insult and make her way into Last Call on foot, when her father’s surrey rumbled into sight on its way to town. Aboard were Delilah and her six protégées, as she liked to call them.

  “It’s a long walk,” Chance said. “And that church service starts on time. Ride with me, Dora.”

  She shot him a deadly look. Turning on her heel, she set off at a brisk march.

  Delilah cackled behind her, and the girls dissolved into giggles as their surrey rumbled on, catching her up. Chance called after her. It should have given her great pleasure to ignore him, only she couldn’t forget their conversation yesterday morning.

  It was as if he were an entirely different person when they’d stood together looking out across the wide valley at what remained of her father’s cattle. He’d spoken passionately about ranching, the land, what a man could make of himself if he so chose. The way he’d looked when he’d said it, the longing in his eyes was what she remembered most.

  “Honey, it’s nearly nine.”

  Dora was jarred from her thoughts as Delilah pulled the conveyance to a halt just ahead of her.

  “Hop up here next to me, and we’ll get you to church, pronto.” She shooed one of the girls to the back, and patted the seat next to her.

  “Oh, no, I—” She almost said couldn’t, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to appear rude. Her mother would roll in her grave if she knew Dora had even entertained the idea of riding into town with a woman like Delilah.

  “Oh, come on. Sure you can. We won’t bite.” She patted the seat again. A couple of the girls encouraged her.

  The notion was appealing on one level. She didn’t want to be late for services. If she was going to woo the townsfolk to her cause, she had to do everything right. That included being timely and courteous. Besides, John Gardner had said he’d wait for her in the vestibule. She owed it to the banker to be on time.

  On the other hand, arriving early aboard a surrey with a bevy of soiled doves would not advance her cause. Nor would it recommend her to the townspeople as a suitable role model to teach their children. On the contrary.

  “Thank you, Mrs….” What was the woman’s surname? She never did find out.

  “It’s Delilah, honey. Nobody except lawyers and bill collectors call me anything else. Come on, now. Time’s wasting.”

  Chance trotted up on Silas. The mere sight of him, and the unpleasant thought of him following her the rest of the way into town, was enough to sway her decision. Dora climbed up onto the surrey, and Delilah snapped the reins.

  They were lat
e for the service anyway, and in the end Dora was relieved. Delilah had refused to drop her off before they reached the church, so she could walk the last few blocks on her own, without the company of seven prostitutes and the gambler who rode behind them.

  Mercifully, John Gardner was already in his seat when Dora entered the church. She joined him. Chance, Delilah and the girls sat in back. It astonished her that no one seemed to pay them any mind. They appeared to be as welcome as the rest of the congregation. In fact, following the service, the preacher walked right up to Chance and shook his hand. She wondered if he, like Mr. Grimmer, was another of Chance’s victims at the card table.

  “I’d be happy to escort you home,” John said to her on the front steps of the church after the service.

  Moments ago he’d introduced her to a half-dozen businessmen, some of them members of the town council. Before she could tell them of her plan to turn the Royal Flush into a school, they’d gushed on about how wonderful it was that she’d taken over her father’s business, and oh, what a fine business it was, drawing all kinds of people to Last Call, and wasn’t that good for the town’s economy.

  “She has a ride,” Chance said, appearing at her side.

  “With you?” John’s face was stone.

  “No, with us!” Delilah waved her over. She and the girls were already seated in the surrey.

  “You came with them?”

  “Oh, no, I…” How was she to explain? “I mean yes, I did, but not by design.” What on earth would he think of her? It was bad enough that she owned the Royal Flush and was living there. There were still no vacancies in town.

  “Her buckboard threw a wheel,” Chance said. “Let’s go, Miss Fitzpatrick.” He took her arm and pulled her down the steps.

  “Wait a minute!”

  She didn’t even get to wish John Gardner a proper goodbye. A few minutes earlier, before he’d introduced her around, the banker had asked her if she’d join him for luncheon in town on Wednesday. He’d said he wanted to speak with her about her father’s mortgage. She’d hadn’t had the opportunity to reply.